Restless
I watch
Solar Christmas lights dance in the wind
Fat raindrops fall on trailer rooftops
New rain smell in the dark
Crickets loud in my courtyard
Can I savor even when I’m
still on edge?
Tense (55)
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Saved by the Bell (54)
My neighbor has fallen in love. Before, we were two hermits living next door to each other. Today his sweetheart moved in. I’ve been glad for him from day one, for both of them, for this unexpected love. But now they sit talking only two handfuls of feet away from my window. Sometimes they talk for hours. Mostly I am able to let go of it, again and again, and be okay. Tonight I can’t let go. I just keep feeling intruded upon. It isn’t as though I can get away from them. This is where I live. I become desperate. I wonder if I will have to wear earplugs to do my work, to do my writing. I remind myself how much worse this could be, this intrusion. It could be loud music that rattles the walls of my trailer, music that feels 100 times worse than nails on chalkboard. (Banish the thought. Poof! Poof!) I could be listening to racist conversations or staunch Trump devotees. (Banish the thought. Poof! Poof!) I remind myself how much I like the two of them, truly like them. I remind myself of the sweetness in this, hearing them navigate their new love. I don’t hear words, mostly, only the tenor of things. Thoughtful, honest, getting to know each other conversations, bearing souls. My heart becomes gladder. Now I hear big raindrops on the trailer rooftops through the open sliding glass door. Everything eases. I come back to my senses with the smell of the rain. Their voices murmur now. I take a deep, full breath. I remember how lucky I am.
Two Visitors (53)
I type, my legs stretched out before me, computer on my lap, afternoon sun beside me on the couch. I am revising a piece I wrote in our Monday group, an hour left before the contest deadline, midnight in the UK. I read my work out loud, like I teach my students. I find tiny things to change. I am deep in the writing when I hear a hummingbird, look up to see her in the living room, the female guardian of the feeder outside the open louvers. In the corner of my eye I think there is another flash, but surely not, not two of them inside at one time. My familiar female hovers near me, then visits the red glass star hanging in the window. When she flies out I hear her friend, still in the room with me, not my imagination. She peers out the kitchen window to the courtyard, then rests on one of the open louvers before leaving me alone, the flutter of hummingbird wings reverberating in the room.
Thursday (52)
I peek out the front door to the courtyard. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I have to come back out.” The finch fly off, quiet and light. I’ve already disturbed them once this morning, filling the feeders, rinsing the big terra cotta saucer I use for the bird water bowl. “I forgot to get the paper,” I tell them. I swing the door wide and the doves take off before I see them, one crazy-loud whoosh of wings. “Too many!” I call after them. Too many of them for my little courtyard. I walk to the gate, pick up my paper from the top of the wooden fence where my kind neighbor places it for me. I dawdle without meaning to, find myself stroking the native plant in the pot beside the sliding glass door, the one that makes tiny yellow flowers in the spring. A hummingbird perches on a bougainvillea branch, chittering. I think she’s the one who’s taken over the feeder outside my living room window. I cross back to the front door, and a familiar sweetness settles in me. The feeders are all filled, ready for my birds. The eight palm volunteers are spruced up in their blue pot, the Mexican petunia trimmed, the mullein happy. I climb the steps to my trailer, scanning the courtyard. There’s nothing more I could want, I think. Then lightning swift comes the next thought, nothing except for my two cats to be alive and here with me. I feel my loss, three years old now, and lift my eyes. The waning crescent moon hangs just above the open door, greeting me. I stand on the steps, and I know I can keep my deep, quiet contentment, can hold my joy, my loss, my longing. I can hold it all.
Crossing the Street (51)
Early dark, the full moon hangs above the tall buildings in downtown L.A.
Fierce and bright in the cold, clear air after the crowded bus
So familiar and dear and reassuring—a sweet surprise.
Water Like a Dream (50)
I hesitate to plunge into the rushing gutters on my way to the creek path. I am not in my usual kid-in-the-rain mode. It’s cold, and I am all reluctant adult. I remind myself I have wool socks on to keep my feet warm even when they’re wet. For a second I waver, think of turning back, but I step into the water instead, surprised by the strength of the current. I’m stunned when I see the creekbed. The water fills it, half a short city block wide. It is moving fast. I’m exhilarated. And I worry about the rabbits, the squirrels, the insects. I hope they were able to escape. I watch a black phoebe flitting about near the water’s edge, the only sign of life. I am afraid he is too close to the rushing water. At the footbridge, a handful of people take videos with their phones. I lean over to watch the water where it drops under the bridge. It makes me dizzy. I don’t expect this quantity of water, the swiftness of it. It scares me. Thrills me. I face the river as it comes from the mountain. I know my hope is nothing in the face of this. There is no way everyone was safe, and I grieve for the wildlife. I walk home beside this huge foreign beast moving beside me. I dream of cottontails hidden in the brush, safe, several feet above the water. Hours later I can still feel it, the magnitude of moving water, the weight of it, the power, like the memory of the rocking boat when you’re back on solid land again. I wonder how long it will stay with me, the water’s presence layered like this over everything.
Belonging (49)
Sunday bird walk near my mom’s
A handful of us stop to watch a scrub jay in the bare branches of a tree
Marvel over his unusual silence, his stillness
Maybe he is meditating, someone says
Yes, I say, maybe he’s a Buddhist
People laugh
I savor the miracle of easy camaraderie.
No Holds Barred 