I remember a friend wondering aloud
long time ago
about whether or not
one would get used to seeing something
beautiful
if you lived some place
beautiful.
I never thought of the farm
as beautiful.
But last evening,
having destroyed tiny spiders’
most recent habitat-building
in the hermitage,
made the beds for guests coming,
hung fresh prayer flags on the porch
and destroyed more native habitat
(mowing Johnson grass, which sent
thousands—millions?—of grasshoppers
flying,
crashing into me)
I looked up to see
sunbeams stretching out from
sun hidden by clouds.

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After standing in awe
for a moment
I almost returned to my duties
but realized they were finished
and so I did something
I regret I don’t usually do:
sit down and watch the sky
during the entire
process
of sun disappearing
as Earth rolls up.
I often go outside during that process
and watch for a few minutes.
But seldom do I sit down
and watch for an hour, or more,
as the sky changes colors,
the Earth moves,
birds sing their last songs
of the day.

Yes, I live on a farm
with a full view of something beautiful:
the sky.
And yes,
I am “used to it”—aware
but not all that attentive.
Except for last night.

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