I sit and feel the rage — mine, and that which doesn’t belong to me –. the pain of
violence–words and actions–and I notice the yellow sunlight throw itself
against the leaves; complete trust in its’ trajectory.
My heart is big enough to swallow the world with every surgical mask, homeless man, and seething crowd in it. Like the feathers of a duck swallow the eggs
A duck with a red beak and brown feathers warms that nest of eggs and watches me
warily like she did last spring when
someone else walked by her sacred workplace and the crises on our lips
were not yet anticipated.
Crises bubble up, toxic tar ignored past expiration, a message
as blatant as nature’s rhythms:
we are dying
nature keeps living, keeps
thrumming her steady bass note:
love woven into the calloused bark,
cutting currents–like whiplashes–down the trunk, telling
us the story of ourselves.