Squirrels are performing acts of high-wire gluttony outside my window.
Rushing across power lines toward the gigantic oak; knocking down the nuts it has worked so long to grow, rushing across the grass with cheeks blown out.
A thicket pushes against my desk view to the world and trembles with sparrows.
Their smudged bodies cock heads this way and that, tuning in for better reception. They settle on my sill, chattering. When they catch my eye they fly away as if I am about to breach the glass between us.
Cooky greats me at the train, counting the hour, minute and second it arrives; scratching the record on a wad of wrinkled paper as I wonder where he files his data of ten years of trains.
And then I’m on another couch.
At another bar.
Welcomed with love, with grace, with obligation, into homes, businesses, libraries.
Finding my place of settling in a space not my own.
Stretching these new morning kinks, carrying the ‘important’ things on my back.
Tumbleweeds of dried hydrangea heads, browned from the cold, bounce across the frost-hardened ground. The sparrows greet me on the path to my door.
They burst from the hedge, flying as a group – in fear, in search, in everything.