I lean my back
into a fork in a Redbud Tree
and fit perfectly. My arrival
scares a cat, a fluffy one, who slinks
away. Within minutes
the gnats and tiny black ants,
a fly,
who must have been elsewhere
when I arrived,
find me, sniffing
around my arms which are resting nicely
on the arms of the Redwood.
Soon, two wasps fly together
through the ground cover—Vinca.
Sunlight strikes a spider web.
Cicadas make that summer sound.
A bird flies through, low,
negotiating perfectly its swift flight
among the trees. A slight breeze—
astonishingly cool this August day—
moves leaves; a dried one,
caught in a spider web, dangles
magically.
Sycamore leaves are turning, falling…
Is it the proper time,
or is the soil too dry?
Cars pass quietly,
stopping at the stop sign,
moving on. No one sees me
tucked into the tree,
deep inside the food forest,
planted here maybe 15 years ago
on a city lot to provide food
for neighbors,
flying, crawling, walking.
The air here is to be breathed
deeply.
It’s settled: This will be my City
Sit Spot—a place I will return to
regularly, spend time in,
to pay attention to,
notice, get to know
the neighbors.


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