Listening first thing
this morning to the report
about yesterday’s elections,
something moving
caught my eye
out the front door window.
It was Pappa Rabbit,
who has free run of the farm.
He was sniffing around the leaves
in the flower bed.
Seeing him
this morning,
white and gray
and especially soft-looking,
brought me up short.
I suddenly felt
Having been away for a week,
and still overcome by the beauty
of the Great Smoky Mountains
and Lake Junaluska,
seeing Pappa Rabbit
just off the front porch
brought me home.
The cats were waiting
and walked me to the barn,
meowing softly,
where I fed them—
then the Alpaca boys,
the chickens and guineas,
the goats
and finally the dogs.
All around,
the prairie palette
is a monotone
of beiges, with hints of faded gold—
drab in comparison
to the glimmering golds, oranges and reds
on the North Carolina mountains.
But somehow this morning,
the drab prairie
softened around me,
quieted me
and pulled me back.
I noticed the jillions of burgundy Hackberries
dangling silently
on bare branches.
I began to hear
in the soft air,
the sound of birds:
Bluejay’s piercing squawk,
Red-Bellied Woodpecker’s drumming.
There is no wind
on this cool, sunny day;
but once in awhile,
a breeze.
Sheets drying on the porch,
blow gently,
and the wind chime sings
A crow calls in the distance
and a flock of sparrows
chatters sweetly
in the Hackberry.
Maybe it’s having been away;
maybe it’s because the pre-election tension
has dissolved.
It is quiet here
It is a soft place
I sink into it,