Rest

A raven flies across a daybreak moon. Cottonwood leaves rattle. The thermometer reads 103. A honeybee, a jet, flycatchers. More leaf rattle. Paper wasps are in abundance trying to engineer a structure upon the side of the house. We are as still as rocks on the patio, tracking the course of a light breeze across our skin. Creatures will come to drink from the bucket of water, the western bluebirds, a doe and her fawns, the cat, the neighbor’s dog, and a chicken. The water dances in the bucket, dimples, then rolls a reflection of leaves, telephone lines, and blue sky. At night we sleep,  the broken heart, the stiff joint, the tired organ healed by the  heat that made us stop. The next day, the towhee bird etches its cry into the air and we become the sound.