In the sky
the birds fly,
fleeing this land, for this land is dying.
They fly south, to the deserts and the rainforests,
Places indefinitely lively.
But in the spring, they will come again,
back with a flurry of feathers and a burst of heat.
Bringing life with them, from the southern places.
Life that will last us till October comes again.
winter's coming on fast —
better chop enough wood.
pluck the last fruits of the harvest —
then say goodnight to the garden,
resting under a blanket of leaves and love.
In the vet's office.
My bunny, sedated.
They are coming soon with the second shot.
She had a good life. I hope she finds peace.
I'm going to miss her so much.
I love you, Whisper. I'm sorry.
Do you think people 100 years ago, in rural Vermont, looked up at the sky, at the milky way, the moon and all the stars? Do you think they marveled at them, and taught their children the constellations?
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