Observation - July 3rd, 2018, Tuesday

Observation

Kitty stretches her front paw

A sparrow cut across the plane of view from the front window

Cool clear light bends through the wavy glass

It is quiet in the morning

The cup filled with coffee is warm in my hand

A breeze on my neck from the black plastic fan

Observation - June 3rd, 2018, Sunday

Observation

The Twins are tied in the bottom of the eighth

I can smell the cut grass through the open window

My lady is out front pushing the mower

I can hear it rattle, in a rhythm with my typing

The hum of traffic flowing by on Bryant

Kitty is on her bench looking at the action

The Twins exit the eighth without advancing

The sun is bright and the air is cool, afternoon

Observation - May 3rd, 2018, Thursday

Observation

Spring came and it is warm in the house

The hum of the fan mutes the sound of the TV

Of traffic, of Kitty purring, of my lady sleeping

Breathing, in the early morning, minutes from rising

The dark is just beginning to break outside the window

The faintest blue line is stretching across the horizon

Tree bud are popping, the Earth is respiring

Beneath a soft blanket of dew

Observation - April 3rd, 2018, Tuesday

Everything is covered in snow

            

             A thick sheet of ice

Clings to the ground beneath it

            The treachery of April

Cold, seeping through the window

            Plows scrape the street

Outside, the green lawn is buried

            Robin, into the nest retreats

Observation - March 3rd, 2018, Saturday

My tawny-tabby kitty is talking to me

Short little bursts of sound like a baby mumbling

Crying

It is quiet in the house

Otherwise, still

She thinks it is past the time

For everyone to be up

Moving about

She cannot read the clock

She does not know it is Saturday

Observation - February 3rd, 2018, Saturday

Observation

It is dark in the room

The lamp by my desk has gone out

I am writing, typing

In the glow of the computer screen

Backlit by another lamp

On the end-table by the couch

Behind me, the talk from the TV

Contains shades of treason

The orange-man has pulled

The curtain from its rungs

He meant to cover his naked ambitions

He revealed the fragile

Crumbling facade of America

Plutocracy, we are governed by Hades

Lord of the underworld

And his host of kleptocrats

Thieves like orange-rats

Scurrying for crumbs

My cat sits on her blue chair

She is bored of her string

I can hear her breathing, soft purring

She would make short work of them

The neighbor’s door opens

Across the hall

Someone exists

A car starts in the cold, outside

A plane flies overhead

To the airport, landing

The city is full of revelers

Tomorrow is the Super Bowl

Observation - January 3rd, 2018, Wednesday

Observation

The radiators here do not clang and bang

They are filled with hot water, not steam

I hear the flow in a low pitched rush

As the boilers work to beat the cold

Air seeping through the window sills

Kitty is curled up in her blue blanket

Head in paws, on her stuffed gray chair

The quiet is broken intermittently

By the sound of the neighbors toilet

Jennifer is tossing in her sleep, coughing

She has been struck by a January virus

Observation, December 2nd, 2017, Saturday

It is noisy at the airport at 6:00 am

The plane to New York promises to be full

The smell of perfume is think in the waiting area

I am sitting next to a Buddhist, wearing the saffron and ochre robes

Of Gottama, of the philosopher, of St. Katherine

The crowd in the terminal are speaking in tongues

In the tongues of humankind, though undoubtedly

There are angels among us, a one-armed man walks past me

There is a ball of fire climbing over the horizon

Casting light on the moon in its fullness

There is a buzz of activity beyond the window

Flickering orange and red, and green

I am waiting patiently to take flight

Observation - November 2nd, 2017, Thursday

At 4:00 am the street outside my window

Is bright with electric light, Bryant Avenue

The refrigerator is noisy, click, rattle, hum

The floors have a different squeak to them

Deeper along the joists, a bus rolls by #4

Kitty is on her blanket, taking in her view

The wind in the maple blowing, leaves

Gathered by the stairs, there are no rabbits

On Bryant, but there are chip monks

With their striped fur, they are sleeping

She is waiting for them to wake