A Sleep After Work

I am in the hammock, resting.

Dog’s important work, about which she is so enthusiastic, is to spit bits of mulch into my wineglass. 
My arms vibrate from the catch-up of strimming hedges and edges - how the wild sidles up, mouth open, ready to swallow us whole! Tenacity to admire, and good to be sure that if we take flight things will grow. Our wilderness is fertile. 
Because of storms I had shifted my hammock stand chandelier to the shelter of a tree. It suits that space as much, dangling crystal foliage. 
Hard green pods appear on fruit trees - all but the pear, nursed back from a near fatal fireblight, but that is in full leaf.
To be at peace here one must embrace the noise of birds, for they can’t all sing. 
A wind whips flame; across the fire pit a twisted log crouches, salamander-esque. 
Fat gnat-ish things fly. The swifts will be in flight soon to gobble them up. 
I am in the hammock, resting. 
Hedges and edges neat enough. Beans planted out. Onions cropping. Cabbages grow leaves big as sails. Syrup pots cooling on the stove. Roses blooming. 
I have drunk a swollen globe of red wine and not the pestering of Dog, nor the birds or wilderness, nor storms, not fire, can keep me from sleep. 


(long drawn-out sigh) Your writing blows me away.
No joke: some birds can’t sing!
Lisa Southard said…
I work hard at it, and this appreciation means a lot! Which I'm sure you can relate to :-) xx
Lisa Southard said…
I feel bad for pointing this out, but tis true!

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