but the light lends
me a kind of delicacy,
the morning quiet
a quotidian peace.
I'm only flesh
open to interpretation.
When I hear the washer
end its spin cycle
I'm done ruminating,
but I turn, pause to watch
a towhee pluck
a fat caterpillar
from the basil.
I'm grateful
for the dull
brown bird eating
that bright green
alive, making good
use of time and shadow.
It's hard to see now,
any light without this dark.