Fog covers the town
or so Iâ€™m told
by those who tell.
Another natural event
that enlivens my heart
like the gathering of starlings
and the whoosh of them going,
the V of geese flying over
announcing themselves noisily.
Sunrise, sunset, the turn of the leaves.
The call of the elusive Kingfisher
and the cry of the hawk.
All of these simple miracles
tell me a secret I already knew
but love to be told again and again:
this life is a Russian doll
nested with gifts inside gifts
down to the tiniest prize
of the wren calling
to anyone who will listen.
Iâ€™ve come home, it seems.
Returned again to the place of my heart
where Iâ€™ve wandered before
with my stalwart companion.
The place where my spirit soars
and his runs free, ears flying.
I wonder, if I could no longer walk
for whatever reason
whether I might find such a place
Could I, would I rise to the challenge?
People do, Iâ€™m told. They rise.
People break and yet carry on.
Could I? Or rather, would I?
I pray to the trees, the creek and the dawn,
the chickadee, the kingfisher and the heron
that I never need learn the answer.
Two cardinals call back and forth.
They sound convivial to me
despite what he says about them.
Whatever it is theyâ€™re saying
I think to myself yes,
Yes, thank you.