bear arms and birds

He hits the tennis ball, his long arm swatting it from the side, bear-like. I hit back. The wily one against the powerful. He wins, of course. Put rabbit next to a bear – the forceful one wins. Always.



(not our secret court, and yet, there are the pines...)


I’m in blue jeans. For me, that’s concession to spring. I put away my very well worn beige-rosé cords. The ones that have the souvenir of a tumble this winter, on the path at Cinque Terre. A rip on the knee. Who needs to buy memories? So many cost nothing.

He has a meeting late this afternoon. (A fresh t-shirt, okay? How about it? Okay?)

I have a date with the Infusion Center staff again. A time to listen to the stories of others. A patient looks up – such nice flowers! -- she tells the nurse. Yes, from someone who just finished treatment. Six weeks, twice a day. We got to know him well. (I wonder if he misses the routine, or is he plain happy to be out of there?) In a stall not too far from mine, a man cannot stop talking about the basketball championships. Nurse stops by my unit. You want to speed it up, don’t you? Uh huh. Okay. Seven minutes and you’re out of here.

I bike home, up the hill in Shorewood, past the shrubs where birds scream during the day and then fall silent. My daughter tells me I have become obsessed with spotting birds. Me, bird watching? I can’t stand still long enough to spot birds.