our grip as we

morning view from loft window
after being awoken by some creature knocking a 2 x 4 over
on the porch:
a squirrel (two feet away) defying gravity as it
shuffles sideways on one of the beam/supports
that runs horizontal under the metal roofing
(and later i tell trish/cynthia
how i like seeing them [the squirrels, close-up, eye contact]
because it helps me share this space with them
(though i still can’t handle
the intense scritch-scratch sound
of what sounds like them working away
at the drywall that is the ceiling
rain guage reading .45
from last night’s showers
how i dump it out so we can start all over again measuring
the rain that will come in today/tonight
wherein we all gather around the truck that does not yet
have a name to send a photo

how we use cynthia’s sweatshirt
for padding our grip as we wrestle
the legs of the almost-there desk
as we screw them in
then out
then in again
sometimes cursing
sometimes laughing

the sound of a single big drop here and there
as heard from the zendo (darien’s room)
while tyler, cynthia and i sit in silence
(it’s the kind of big drop that is gathered water from a smaller drop that results during a misty time like this evening)
i place dust and shavings and small bits 
of palo santo (on a warming stove) from a bag with a label on it
from the herb store in grants pass
and this smell will always make me think of camping
at refugio beach
on the journey/move
in tyler’s red truck (called the pluot)
from portland to san diego
not knowing 

the dark spot on the trim above the spider plants
that looks like a gnarl in the wood i’ve never noticed before
and ends up (upon close inspection) being a velvety black (with some tan patterning) moth


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