The budding lilac isn’t concerned with my memory of last year’s bloom.
All is abundance, even in dearth.
There are dogs I see every day which no longer bark when I pass. I see a fairly large white one through a living room window; he sits upright in a chair like a human, his right paw on the armrest. He watches and makes no comment.
At dusk I meet a crow, and am pleasantly surprised when he treats me as an equal. We walk beside each other for a time, beneath a pine tree that has been shedding its cones on the sidewalk and street.
To address our fellow creatures with our eyes, and to be in one another’s confidence.
The poor fish on ice in the grocery store, and how they stare out through the glass, martyrs of their instinct. We have given those who make the display the friendly name of butchers.
I was my own worst enemy, and my own best friend. And even if I could, I would not go back again.
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