Robins gossip at daybreak. The peace lily by the back door recovers from an accidental drought. The weekly circular has a coupon for California cherries. I still have some in the fridge. Today we’ll feel the summer heat – near ninety. The dog will laze and pant and walk at an obstinate pace.

In the courtroom dream, the television cameras wore white wigs. They were evenly spaced apart in a square balcony looking down. Everything was the color of light wood. We waited for the accused. We waited for the sentencing.  There was no buzzing crowd, just the whir of a fan, the waiting wigs.

It’s the end of the day at the end of the month. My brain feels emptied out and sleep has a stranglehold on my attention. Cars race and rev in the distant night. The shade lifts and falls in the breeze. All the windows are open.  Six more words before I fall….

A waxing moon tilted sideways hangs in the early evening sky. She seems shy in her appearance with so much daylight left – not sure if she belongs or maybe she’s arrived early at the party before the host is ready. In this moment, the sun still commands the sky, brazen and blazin’.

The tallest tulip tree I’ve ever seen blooms yellow flowers with cantaloupe orange Charlie Brown zigzags. Down the street a small blackbird has been flattened into the road – its legs splayed out like a stick-figure drawing of the bird.  I imagine every branch of every tree has been touched by something living.

From high above, the hawk screeches her bottle-rocket whistle. When the heavy bee (maybe hornet) buzzes by, I turtle my head and neck into my shoulders as if its buzz might sting my ears. How natural our instinct to duck – make ourselves small in the face of threats heard but not seen.

In the mid-morning sun, the dog pants. He looks like he’s smiling but really, he’s just hot. He drinks from the silver water bowl that glints bright from sunlight. A spindle of spittle stretches from his jowls before it snaps and falls to the ground. I’m glad he didn’t shake it off.

Sun glares on the midday deck. The day heats up. A group of grackles buzzes close. I feel and hear their rapid wingbeats.  I close my eyes, tilt my head up towards the sun, breathe deep and expand into the moment. The top half of a ghost moon hangs in the distance.

The purple leaves on the maple tree aren’t purple. They have a purple hue but are really a deep and waxy green. I thought of writing “purple leaf” twenty-six times. Could I count twenty-six or fifty-two leaves without getting lost in my count? Would a gust of wind make me lose track?

Birds peck the ground and pick the trees searching for sustenance. Each act is a small practice in faith and hope. They find what they need and move on. They pause on the branches and telephone lines singing little songs of joy and fullness. Oh, how to move with such tiny confidence.