I trim the bushes on my little road
tecoma, bougainvillea, Mexican birds of paradise
so wrong this time of year
but so needed
to repair the butchering done to them
in my absence and
without my permission.
Now I am ruthless, but
each cut is made with love.
(After, I wash them with the hose
and pray for new growth.)
Now that I am giving
my mother’s cat
her fluids
every day
I look for
and savor
even more
the mornings when
her head feels sturdy
underneath my hand
or like yesterday
when she trotted off
down the hall—
buoyant.
The white-crowned sparrow
dunks his head
again and again
in the fresh bird water
all fluff and delight
an honor
to sit here
in my courtyard
watching.
What beats this?
This time I don’t see the insects
(gnats, maybe? no-see-ums?)
but twice
I watch
the lizard dart across the gray cement
in my corner of my mother’s back yard.
Dart and gobble.
Dart and gobble.
It makes me happy for him.
How did I live so long
among lizards
without ever seeing this?
This cold, steady rain
so needed
sparks glee in me
back in bed
with my tea.
The mockingbird greets me for the second morning in a row. He is on a different electric pole today, one pole north of yesterday’s. He’s my first mockingbird for 2022. I worried when I was in Palm Springs last week because I didn’t hear one. (I am good at worrying. I even wondered if something was wrong. Two years ago there were so many there, more than I’d ever known. Could there be a dearth of them this year?) I stand in the driveway, head back, looking up at him. “Good morning,” I say, happy to see him, happy he is happy. I don’t remember to look at anything else, to check the top of the ridge for hawks, to take in the sky. I only notice I am dressed too warmly for the sun, and when I walk back in the gate, I feel the cool air of the shade on my face. My wishes to each of you. May it be a good day. And if there is grief or anger or terror in it, may there be an unexpected moment of love or kindness or joy.
I am peeing late in the day, staring out the open door without seeing, and then there are small cat paws visible below the red couch in the new room. I lean forward, see Trie eating her canned food. Her human is in bed doing a crossword puzzle from her big book. There is an absence of agitation after a steady spill of it throughout the day, an almost unrecognized relief. I bend my head down to see Trie more fully, her concentration, the always-pleasure of seeing her skinny, ailing self enjoying her food. I am happy just now in the midst of everything else, this unexpected moment, the cat and I linked somehow in the quiet, heartened by her furry self and her steady eating.
No Holds Barred 