the hot red roar

mica and i reclined on the grass incline
in front of the whitehouse talking for at least an hour
the day draining itself but mostly
i don’t heed the call of the soil mix
in the greenhouse
_______
the kind of light and the way it falls on
the butcher block as i onion-chop
and how, if there is any reason to be alive
this is one of them
same light falling on darien framed in kitchen sink window
as he kneels down to harvest spinach
_______
the parade of cats (about six feet between each)
following me after dinner in a line
over to karma
where they haunch in their dusk-time hunting style
_______

sandhill sangha darien calls it jokingly
before and after he rings the bowl-bell
with the cloth-covered mallet
_______

the hot red roar in the woodstove
that i didn’t necessarily mean to make
i just wanted to build something that i knew
would sitll be there a half hour later
_______

8:49pm central standard
what i first think is coyotes
turns out to be geese
calling over head
low enough to be heard 
and loud enough to be estimated in the hundreds

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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