Wednesday, June 2, 2021
Early evening, the back yard of a summer cottage. I am alone, except for the hidden life under the porch, in trees and bushes and in a shallow ravine of wild grapevines,
Cloudy and cool, the air heavy with damp. Chipmunks dart from under the porch into the bushes and back. A small rabbit, like part of a magician's trick, suddenly appears on the grass munching clover. Just a handful of softness.
On a low pine branch, a plump robin. His orange breast brightly visible in the graying dusk. Sleek and lordly, he turns his head, gives a few whistles, flies down to peck in the grass, then back to the branch. Again and again, the same procedure. This is my territory his call seems to say. My branch.
Crows, starlings, a pair of blue jays and a pair of cardinals. In and out of trees, in and out of the ravine. A sparrow inspects the brick patio, then hops away. More robins. Too many and too fast to identify which call comes from which bird, except for the lordly robin back on the pine branch.
Damper now, and colder. Mosquitoes find my bare legs. Still, I remain. There are fireflies, signaling from the ravine, the wind speaking to me through the trees, the thin, gray light not yet gone in the west .
a country night–
slowly the quiet
wraps me inside
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Sunday, May 23, 2021
Friday, May 7, 2021
Breaking Away…or Not
I cannot ride a bike. A bad fall as a child pushed my wish to learn off the horizon. Once every decade or so a hazy desire returns, spurred on by family, only to vanish after another fall or near fall. I envision a fractured hip, broken collar bone, concussion, full body cast. Now in my seventh decade spring has again stirred an unnatural wish to defy gravity and climb in the saddle.
But wait… Are those rain clouds moving across the horizon? Storm clouds bringing thunder and lightning?
Ride a bike? No thank you. I’d rather walk.
drawing me down
for a closer look
Friday, April 30, 2021
Tuesday, April 20, 2021
The Condos at the end of the Cul-de-Sac
“See you at the mail box,” I say to my friends when we speak on the phone. Neighbors we are, one on my left, one on my right, three widows, with me in the middle sharing a condo wall with each. The Merry Widows. Or we were.
a little tipsy
senior decorum slips
with a bawdy tale
Lunches, dinners, shopping. Impromptu gatherings for coffee with freshly baked cookies. All that was before. Before our advanced years and vulnerability made us cautious, made us retreat and pull back, keeping our contacts to the essentials. We keep in touch by phone and emails, gripe, worry, encourage. On occasion we meet outside at the mailboxes, short meetings, voices raised so as to hear words spoken at a distance and through a mask.
“What’s new? Saw the doctor. Ordered online. Catch you tomorrow.”
It’s not enough, but we endure and hope. I collect my mail and retreat, but with a lighter step.
for one or a dozen
it’s about the wait