Eyes closed, back straight.
The smell of freshly ground drip
Fair Trade hand-blended travelogue of
Ethiopian, Guatemalan, Colombian.
Breathing
Breathing
B r e a t h i n g
Windchimes
Ranger's toenails click click click
seven distinct tones of wind song
brisk and Westerly
enchanting the maples and the pines
with caresses and promises
of distant . . . . . . . and different . . . . . . .
lands, and Realities
just around the corner.
Finches complimenting the bird feeder
jays bragging, chickadee joyous
singing to scudding white clouds
while the squirrel scolds, biding his time
mourning doves
lament their name
Mr. Myer's lawn tractor
sings a Sunday song
across a summer valley.
Breathe.
Eyes open to Greyhavens pastoral afternoon.
One mourning dove takes nervous point
watching for feral cats
while his comrades feast.
Nina Simone and Julie London
beckon from within.
Breathe.
Be. Now.
