Drear sky. Wet Earth.
A cold drizzle falls like nails.
The daylight is grey;
The green of the grass is heavy and dull.
Yet there is mystery here.
Goldfinches and chickadees flit in their hundreds
in and out of our bird feeders.
Doves bob for seeds
around the last shards of an old stump.
Cardinals and Blue Jays splash color
through the dark boles of oaks, pines, magnolia.
There is mystery everywhere here.
Leaves rattle downward through air,
stirred by a wind flying over
the quiet cup of our backyard.
Squirrels send up sentinel calls.
They sound like gossip to me.
They sound like mystery.
Dimly I become aware of another sound,
a susurration that is like breathing.
I think it a medley of moving wings,
crackling seeds, scraping claws, clicking beaks,
all set against a backdrop of water
sighing down trees.
The mystery taunts me.
There is meaning in all this.
Though I cannot fathom it.