Vibrato and Heart-notes

October ends with maple trees trickling yellow in a rainstorm. Before the house wakes: a fire, breakfast, tea and coffee. Sunday takes a few extra hours to brighten.

More news of deepening hate. How quickly we forget our roots. Rot blistering, bursting its infection amongst the compromised. Who is not implicated? I struggle to accept these moments. More bodies put at rest. More sermons on love.

She plays a concert for us in front of the fireplace. The dog bows and wags her tail between the second and third movement of the eight minute piece. Along with vibrato and heart-notes, our daughter's essence lifts from the earth – away from home. I don't try to collect it any longer but I do tilt and bob in her waves. As she drives away in the old red Subaru, I remind her to vote. Be heard, child.

Chickadees wait their turn at the feeder, shaking raindrops off pine boughs when they arrive and leave. There'll be no yard work today. No fishing for leaves in the creek. No piling or raking or tarping. Grass begins to dream and bulbs curl into a lingering torpor. The ossature of January drinks strength from October. Hollowed out acorns reveal that survival pulls no punches.

Ginger snaps dipped in peach tea. Soup on the stove all day. The sonance of migrating geese rising over Chopin and other sounds of sabbath . . . such precious occurrences in an economy of violence.