yesterday was a bird in the hand.
a sparrow. flying full speed with the joy of summer, hard into the glass of the front door, falling onto the moss, but breathing, and with the cat at my heels, i picked it up, closed the door and the open windows, leaving the cat inside. i thought of graciel, of my mother, of kelly, and i sat with it on the back porch, just a small thing clutching for life in the palm of my hand, its mouth open, as if trying to find its lost song. inside the house, the tv was on, a movie about africa and other deaths; i could hear the blurred voices over my shoulder, beyond the window. the sparrow lay in my hand, staring at me (was i god or monster, i wondered), breathing hard, one leg jerking hard. i began to sing my own song, maybe it would be good enough, i thought, and i said those things you say when pain or death hovers nearby - hush, it will be all right, it will be all right - and watched its leg calm down, its breathing slow. watched its eye on me, huge and frightened. watched a breeze blow leaves from the trees. thinking to make a nest from those leaves and grass, i laid the sparrow on my mother's picnic table, just for a moment, i thought, but as i turned, it flew. away into that breeze, and gone.
another summer begins.
this year, the grass grows quickly. mowed just a few days ago, it is already head high to the cardinals. i am like the grass, soaking in words like sunshine and rain. i've been swallowing books whole, devouring them. it's been a feeding frenzy. from romance and scotland to patti smith to tuscany once again. movies on the tv, africa and iowa and more africa, deaths and dreams.
i am traveling someone else's words, packing light for the journey.
it is summer, after all.