The cricket's all John Cage - experiment on a stage - performing its single note etude, relentless, as the audience awakes


Hanging clothes on the line – I suddenly remember - Pink petals on the vine


Someone, with no rhyme or reason, flipped the switch - It's bug season


It happens with the dappled light of the evening woods as well

the sleight of hand of greens in drift: this magician's first tell


There .. Right there ... Right there where brook tumbles into bridge and disappears


She says, to me:

Three bears (a mother, two cubs, exploring fearlessly) Two ravens (she's sure, spying them in reaches of the tree) One fox (sunning itself near a hole where others might be)

and that had me remembering, from the past how we, too, saw the moose (hiding in the dingle and then darting free) and the Fischer cat (low, slinky madness of a different degree)

The neighborhood's wild just seems to be getting ever wilder


It's always fine to be reminded of the world, unseen; that we don't own the place

like the morning walk beginning with spider's web, sticky and empty, draped across the face


One lone bird, above the din; its song, warbled, draws me in


I'm waiting for the hummingbird, not yet come

I'm listening for the music of its distinctive thrum

A pause in the new day, only now, barely begun


How tempting it is to pluck the stem and blow the seeds into the wind but I prefer to gather in and observe the way the wild dandelion, remains, at rest