Witness the Day


Chachalakas cackling like noisy gossips

in a forest of thorns

while white wing doves admonish

in the deep richness of morning light and shadow

passing over grasses covering the hillside drying

in the end of a perfect cycle,

heavy with grain,

waiting for the rains,

where mice, no longer plaguing my pantry

scurried hungrily in the cover of night

in the dim light of distant stars,

but lay sleeping this very moment

in secret urgency,

while I, awake, sip coffee simultaneously

listening and watching in silence

and seeing nothing moving,

have nothing important to say,

wanting only to witness the day

while scratching sky and scuffing dirt

with lizards along the road.




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