like helpless dumplings

the way the early light
lands on the pages of a book titled word warriors
(about women spoken word artists)
and casting woven shadows
of the screen in the hazy privy  window
the light moves through
mica and i treading water in the pond
so only our heads from chin up are seen
and she tells me about being in her pond
the other day
at just the right time of light-turning-dark
to see hundreds of red winged blackbirds
flying in for a cattail landing
as we make our way out of the chicken yard gate
emory talks about the exhausted ducks
after they’ve been chased for two laps
around the coop:
like helpless dumplings
the dark sweet blueberry jam
that dottie’s parents made/brought
oozing over the edges of some of our toast
that we serve ourselves after dinner
how dottie’s mom and i marvel
at the color (bright bright deep green alive)
of the chimichurri in the pint jars
in the mood-ilt karma kitchen
where one can see the almost-full-moon
through the window

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