Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing / and rightdoing there is a field. / I’ll meet you there. — Rumi
I imagine the field of no-ideas rustling with sparrows.
I’ve decided to come home to myself. I’ve been away too long.
I mean, my body has already come home to itself. My mind just got wind of it and is trying to take all the credit.
I feel a twinge of sadness when the American goldfinches fly off to my neighbor’s pin oak.
I feel bad about playing with boas when I was younger. I take feathers seriously now.
I waited all morning for the eastern bluebirds.
I watched birds for years without seeing them.
My house has become a bird blind.
I woke to bluebirds.
A yellow ball flies through the air: children playing.
The more I watch trees, the more I dream of trees.
Backlit birds and a bright gash in the dark sky.
A chipmunk scuttles home before the storm.
A blue jay covers a peanut with leaves before going back for another.
I don’t want to look at birds because I want to anticipate looking at birds.
The rain falls whether you think about it or not.
A wet house finch sings from my windowsill.