Singing Where I Cannot See

The front porch, slow breezes coming from no particular direction, and happy finally, in no rush to either live or die.

Fire trucks pass with lights but no siren. The neighbors lean on rakes and say things that cannot be heard from across the street. Is this Sunday or Saturday or something else entirely. 

Throwing twigs and dry leaves into the horse manure, dust rising. Sun-bleached gourd husks in which bees rest, or wait or sleep, or are simply still in warm sunlight spilling over the hedge. The barn door lists now when it opens and we are concerned but we are not yet doing anything to fix it.

Straw blows across the front yard, a stray piece wedging against a purple crocus, royal purple, trembling there. 

Cardinals singing where I cannot see.

The God that is beyond all signs and is thus capable of expressing through any one of them, as now. Sex as an ideational extension of communication in contexts where people need to do something with their mouths besides talk. Going back to Bob Dylan's Christian records, especially Slow Train Coming, and remembering being open to those songs in ways most other Dylan fans were not.

Midday cannabis. Tea with lots of honey, matzos with cream cheese and raw onion, and later a handful of raisins.

Sheep bawling in afternoon sunlight. Now when they say "wind," we have a different experience, but it is an experience of anticipating, not an experience of damage. I remember helping family drunks to bed, unsure why we celebrated them so, but in no way - even now - interested in doing anything else. 

Chickadees, the heart within my heart, promises made to foxes in my mid-twenties coming due, and et cetera, always et cetera.