Barefoot in the sunny garden,

breathing deep...... breathing slow......

cool damp movement on my skin -

earthworm squirming by my toe!

In less time than a full exhale,

in six or seven strong wing strokes,

the bald eagle flies across my window view.

Walk along this lane 

mist pattering the umbrella,

breathe the still, moist air

redolent of apple blossoms.

Opened the window to holler 

at the neighbor’s tomcat -

left it open to listen to rain 

pattering on lilac leaves.

In the pouring rain

song sparrow alights atop a fencepost

lifts it’s head and sings

in the pouring rain.

Navy slate back and wings
brick powder red breast,
the barn swallow gathering puddle mud
works unperturbed as I inch the car
past on the far side of the drive.

Quiet.  No wind.  Gray
cloud draped ridges, drifts downslope.
Fine rain comforts the green earth.

Ancient lopsided apple tree

a crone bridal veiled in blossoms and bees,

breeze brushed petals fluttering down

spread a snowy shadow on the ground.

Ambushed by a grabby gust,

screen door snatched away.

Across a little valley from the house

runs the winding mountain highway,

a blacktop siren song for engine jockeys.

The crotch-rocket corners with a growl,

accelerates into the straight with a rising 

whine and dopplers past -

too fast - 

I know the road, 

I know the adrenalized state of mind

inside the helmet. 

“Go carefully!” I telepath, 

“Don’t you know -

you are precious in this world?”

Raggles the fluffy tortoiseshell

sits under an arched ceiling of bleeding hearts 

tracking a bumblebee in the rafters.

I’ve taken my chair to the orchard

(never mind it’s just one pear tree)

where I can write in the sun and listen

to hundreds of bees in white blossoms

humming their sweet honey hymns.

Against the rising sun larger branches are 

still winter stark; but twiglet ends unfurl

tiny clustered aspen leaves  

like translucent chartreuse flowers. 

Red tailed hawk

scolded by robin

pursued by swallow

lazily flaps 

out of the pines

into the open 

drifting away 

wingtips upturned

"Kiieer!"  

flap, flap

"Kiieer!"   

The aspen grove is sprouting

a cumulous of fairy green.

The little water river sings over stones

sings over sand bars

in the bottom of the valley;

The mighty wind river sings over pines

sings over cedars, 

sings overhead

through the rafters of the sky.

Arranged mandala like in 

a yellow soup plate: dandelion faces,

violet leaves, iris spears, one narcissi -

a young son’s offering.

Tails twitching, last year’s kittens

bat at each other and shriveled brown

wind-swung sweet pea vines

through the weathered lattice.

Rosy house finch and his brown wife

flutter from ponderosa to puddle,

I assume they are drinking, but 

they fly up with beaks full of mud.

Breeze in the garden motivates 

retreat to the greenhouse. Take that seat

with your back to the west glass -

feel the sun’s heat fill your back. 

Feet up, that’s right! Now, read.

First spider, sable speed walker

on ivory window slats, furtive and reverseful.  

Second spider, sartorial in cream and stripes, 

glares at the gardener, resumes perambulation.

Three white geese undertake ablution 

with energetic undulation - 

how will they get clean 

in so brown a stream?

Turbid, turgid, urgent flow - 

brown pasture stream

carries the mountain to the sea.

Crossing the gully on a highway fill

I look down into the sunlit willow crown,

winter’s orange twigs are over painted with 

a thalo green and cadmium yellow wash 

of emerging leaves.

Swishing rush of stream on stone

Bumble buzz of early bee

Dingling wind chime’s silver tone

Robin chatter, chick-a-dee

The tangled old apple tree hovers

in a green mist of emerging leaf edges.

High up, one red breasted house finch 

momentarily deceives me.

I probably paid too much

for the four small geraniums, but - 

Oh! That dark magenta red!

Rossini’s overture sweeps me along

the unrolling ribbon of homeward highway.

Green hills fling their arms out to both sides.

Next to the cat dishes,

a shiny aluminum lasagna pan 

sprouts a miniature oat grass jungle.

Darkness falls, candle glows

on our children’s faces

intently listening as Dad reads 

on the power of giving thanks.