‘You cannot live the same life you imagined.’

I wake and imagine the beach empty, no people, geese, coyotes, dead fish or dogs. Already I am anxious. The geese are on the narrow strip threatening; gander, lame goose, two fluffed goslings. I blow myself up with raised wings and pull the dog into the muddy hill.

I walk imagining solitude. Half way down the beach frenzied thoughts are not my own. Hijacked I turn to the lake and shake myself like a dog. It is Sunday, my day to do nothing. This one thing I steal from God.

On the deck, I imagine peace as I read with bird song, beating wings, sun warmed wood and coffee.

I say Sunday like a blaspheme.

He has those earmuff blocking, hard plastic, save your ear, not mine, things and probably music piped in contraptions I have not imagined.

Riled up.

I have not imagined the perfect day to whipper snip the harbour grass below the yard. This small peace shattered.

My small piece shattered.

Here I am, doors shut, windows shut.

The birds wordless through glass mixed with sun, green and sublime sky.

I imagine the delicate center of getting and wanting, my still point where the pendulum rests, neither imagining or accepting.

This life with wild lame furious geese on my path.







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