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In my element, wiping my face with my cap,
I sit in my great grandmother's rocker,
its arms chewed by squirrels, sawdust in my cuffs,
crows complaining of my presence
at the cabin I built half my life ago,
done for now with the bowsaw,
firewood stacked on the porch,
nuthatches alighting with a scraping
of tiny claws to check me out, upside down,
then plucking a single seed from the feeder,
and off they go with a popping of wings
to shell it and eat it in a tall oak —
advice from the natural world,
sampling life one seed at a time.
I uncrumple a list from my pocket,
so much to do while there's still time,
but I let the sun drop without my own haste,
busy admiring the nuthatches
in their single-seeded, upside-down approach,
savoring each gift into twilight.
Evening moves cool through bare trees.
—Title from a line by Jane Kenyon
