Orange glow in the trees as the sun comes up—so many love the early hours, but I confess I’d prefer to wake later. Still, as I look out at the dawn world, hear the hum of distant cars, notice how things go on whether I’m moving or not, I feel a kinship with the trees, who witness this each day. A streak of dark resolves into a bird, a nuthatch clinging to the trunk of a maple outside the window, carrying on with the work of being itself, and I know that I’d like to do the same. I ask, in the early morning light, for the strength to be like that bird, only me.
watering the basil—
an orb weaver spider
works beside me
lives in New Hampshire and works for a climate justice organization and in a hospital. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Bellevue Literary Review, Hawk & Whippoorwill, humana obscura, Naugatuck River Review, New Feathers Anthology, The Penwood Review, Radix, and Third Wednesday.
