Friday was a bleak day.
Saturday was not.
It isn’t aloneness,
the difference.
It is 3 newsprint pictures of life:
a hurdler, a keeper,
two dozen sea turtles.
It is blue sky marbled with white,
fairyland houses with doors of etched glass
that translate a lowering sun
into new language.
It is the voice of one son, and another,
the voice of their father.
Cardinals and house finches feeding young,
a lesser goldfinch
circling my head
again and again
Hey! Look at me!
or perhaps Hey! Go Away!
flashing his gold breast
from under his black cape
in the light of the sunset.
Feathered grasses
of lavender and mauve
so soft, so very soft.

A midnight call
woke me up
then a tortoiseshell scorpion
who insisted, really, wake up
and see the risen eastern moon
and do yawning yoga
in moonlight
cast thru trees and
transparent leaves
of plants open wide
arched upward
to receive light