I’m in the small house on the river. I come here to sleep, watch the grass grow and chirp to the Phoebes. The rain is filling up the river and the green out the window is blinding.
I came all fired up with an armload of books and fabric. Now my mind stands waiting for direction, my body does nothing while my ears pull in bird sound and my eyes absorb colour.
On the table a tangle of lace. I drape it over an open glass door. Nothing comes to mind.
A robin hopping across the grass head cocked, stops, plunges, tug tug tugs out a worm; then peck, shake, drop it, peck again, shake it, hop away, hop back to peck, drop it, hop, hop hop away, then back to peck a severed piece and gulp, gulp head skyward, hop hop hop further away, back to gulp the rest, then fly up in a cedar.
The rain has a slant, lines of rice piercing the river. The cedars stand very still getting soaked, like a back rub you hope never ends. The rain straightens. The grass is willing to crouch under my feet.
Sometimes I need
wherever I am
to be blessed.
The Robin is back.