The Season is Changing

I thought I’d write about sea gulls because
I had nothing to say. But I know nothing
about sea gulls. How about the wind?

So, I looked out my window. The branches
were blowing back and forth in the cooling
desert air. Like me. I speak; no one hears.

I need the wind to whisper or the trees to
talk back! Tell me something. The only
thing I hear is the faint faraway sound

of a jet flying overhead from here to
somewhere but not where I can see. Does
it matter if I tell you that I did coffee and

I’ve done tea? Got up for a glass of water
which is very unlike me. I can’t shake it
off; reality won’t vanish, won’t go away.

My mind is pacing the floor while I sit still.
Isn’t it true? You are willing to wait until
you have to, until waiting becomes a test

that wasn’t your idea. I have to accept what
I don’t know. I look out again. The wind is
still blowing. Is it really speaking to me?

How easy to be a tree! Its trust is well rooted.
(Not really trying to be funny; I’m serious
as I can be.) Do trees ask the wind where it

came from or why me? I think the wind
gave me a hint of what I couldn’t see—that
the season is changing for the trees and me.


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