Observations


It feels slightly like mania
setting in, again, after a very long absence.

*

Billy Collins says that poets are always looking out
their windows. I think he may be right.

I do the next best thing. I sit on my porch and look
out the weathered screens.

A cardinal sits on the next door neighbor's porch
rail. A male. Vibrant red.

A man carrying a large, white bundle over his shoulders,
crosses the street and walks through the driveway next door.

Two cars pull into the driveway next door.

Primrose grows in the gardens I have planted which border
the brick walk out front. My mother gave them to me.
She says my great-grandmother planted them. She gave
them to me though this is the first year they have completely
taken off and over.

I've always thought it rude to look too much, but how can
I see if I don't look too much. So, I keep looking.

A young man with a rather large backpack pedals
past on his bike. Where is he going? What's in that
large pack on his back?

A young woman in black pants and a blue shirt
carries a blonde curly-haired baby in her arms.

Someone mows the yard next door.

Someone else picks up sticks.

What appears to be the same young man who earlier
carried the large white sack now walks back through
the yard next door, shirtless, one hand carrying a dark
shirt draped over his shoulder.

A hummingbird flits among the rhododendron blossoms.