The garden is alive with movement this afternoon,
an odd east wind pushing through the grasses,
pale sunlight filters through Wisteria leaves
and two yellow butterflies seek a bit of sweetness.
At a distance I can hear the garden chimes,
steady as the dawn, intoning the Hours and Psalms.
The black and white cat is on the hunt amid fallen leaves
as I wrap my chilled hands around a pottery mug.
Everything in sight shimmers with a restless calm,
there is tension in the air...and the mockingbird sings.
I need to place a couple of calls tomorrow,
cancel something, set up a meeting, talk to Sam.
The chickens hustle across the bricks, following
the lead hen, she who eats first and calls the shots.
(One of the hens was found dead in the litter today,
pecked to death by her friends and family. Disturbing!)
A knowing apprehension sits crouched in my soul and
I pull on a flannel shirt, now my tea has gone cold.