“Do you know," Peter asked, "why swallows build in the eaves of houses? It is to listen to the stories.” ~ J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan


i wish i may

the trees of easter listened to our secrets and nonsense.

sunday.  2 white girls talking all day outside about everything and nothing, settling onto old chaise lounges, barefoot under the april sky, calling it quits only when evening began to roll in.  there were teasings of rain, but the birds never quietened, and my phone rang only once.  i missed the call.

we hadn't planned it, and in fact discussed getting in the car and going here or there, discussed walking to the park, but the farthest we got was into the house for a drink or something to eat, and then out again under the cloudy sky.  we turned off the daily gps, and let ourselves get lost, let the day take us on a journey.


actually quite perfect timing.  i am reading why place matters, am barely in, nodding my head in time to the spin of dean moriarty's wheels, this year of no rules seeming righter and righter, this year of dismantling moving into a year of shedding, of tossing, of leftover maps and emotions blowing out the open windows as i zoom down the road.  this year's road is full of unforeseen curves and potholes in the night, and the price of gas keeps going up, but what's a girl to do?


thursday morning and the sound of the wind surprises me.  the door is open, the sky blue and gray, the birds singing, but i see nothing but small breezes.  i turn away and the wind returns, blowing cool air across the bottom of my feet.  sunshine is bright and everywhere, and the wisteria is at last blooming, though not much.  spring seems another sign of this year's untried road, moving too fast, dogwood petals already dotting the streets and sidewalks.  the trees i thought would never leaf now hide the owls and hawks, and i can no longer see the church steeple down the block.  it is easy to fall under the spell of that wind, now shushing across leaves and flowers, just as easy to feel claustrophobic and exposed to hidden eyes.  i think to myself that the end of april will surely stop the too many changes of this year, that may will truly be a month of mays.  yes, you may this, yes, you may that - that the changes still to come will be good ones.

the trees of thursday move with the wind, but only the trees across the street, behind the neighbor's house.  it is a small wind and takes its time to cross to my yard, to flirt with the hackberry tree and be gone.  i divine the mood of the day by the sounds of the birds, and they are quieter.  quietening. hawks or rain be coming.



  1. Ah, your words are a gentle breeze this morning; yes, the day's moods and movements are found in the whispers, when you listen to the wind and the birdsong.

  2. you know, (because i'm blind) i read that first line as the trees of easier. and i love that.

    hawks or rain, your words always make whatever comes into beautiful magic.

    1. ha! this font! it does look like easier. i may have been writing things you read as something else for ages! :)

  3. your writing... so beautiful... -happy sigh-


  4. yes, hawks or rain. such thoughtful words. it is raining here. a soft wetting rain. no wind, no thunder, no storms. just rain. i like this day.


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