As a child I heard the newsof population explosionand saw my growing selfpressed shoulder to shoulderwedged against static strangers.We packed tight across the continent,no place to go, no running,no room for shade trees,rose buses, sheep, bobcats, pet goats.Not selective, the voidtakes whatever it wants,reduces me to grief and apnea.

A herd of shaggy deadlines,has trampled another day,digital clock to my right,analog to my left–the watch on my arman urban guerrillain life’s punctual war.Lunch is not always the length of a sandwich.On the dark road homesomething gleams in the headlights–broken glass, not the wild eyes of something for whom time is notthe nattering of seconds…

The globe shivers when a small birdlands on a twig, one living part of a treewith deep roots knotted into the soilwhen a wren alights, and warroars somewhere in the world.There is no side to a sphere.It has one skin. Spider webs shiver when rain or wind stirs the air we share. Mistakes, miss steps…

I’ve learned the art of losing–lost socks, jobs, houses,a fine dog, two old cats,causes that feel personal–glaciers, forests, coastlines, species.I lost my friend Michaeland most of a previous generation–not misplaced–dead.Cling tight to the familiarand life gets crowded, soI make room for friendswho know me at distance.Each generation has its dayand gives way.

An eagle near the house tears its kill down to the bone. Death sounds like truth,but words matter less than a safe distance, keeping the road between us. Hungryto witness this wild feast, I would be an eagle now, rabbit later.two people, two dogsall four asleep at sunrisesmall black cat awake