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3:30 

in the 3:30 a.m. sounds I opened my window to the coyotes.
they managed themselves in the backyard.
my side window.
i wanted to talk to them
about their crowded angst
their lack of a plan
their side of the story.
how it is the men are winning? and
is there enough room across the bridge and between the trees?
the middle of.
i valued their perspective
and their secret narratives
of a bad rap
with no plan.
we had pine trees at the end of my street
when i was a kid.
well worn paths and sandy trails, pinecones and parallels
to the 7 eleven and onward to the people.
we had no plan
my neighbor.
but lets ride
past the trails and past the woods
where there were probably
coyotes once
maybe.
wandering and winning.

Posted in Uncategorized

Salute.

As a white girl who did not grow up in the place she was born I have always been envious
Of region with ritual
and tight knit diversities.
Ethnicities.
Repetition with a nod.
I salute you
My brother. My sister.
Ritual for me was the same church pew on Sunday. Tiny pencils for sketching and fried chicken around 1:00.
Later, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner.
My parents read the newspaper.
Sunday sections of glossy adds and shopping for the week ahead.
Coupons.
My mother had a file.
In alphabetical order.
Which she carefully matched winding her way through the grocery aisles. On a Tuesday or Wednesday.
We had our own cobbled together rituals as a singular family unit.
Set the table.
Take your seat.
Give thanks.
Always.
Now.
Sometimes I dream of the desert.
I admire headscarves and robes
and songs in languages I don’t understand.
Your temple.
You
Are a temple.
Shouts of joy and the children are carrying flags.
The wind is blowing.
And
Someone left a window
Open.
On the wrong side of the room.
My brother. My sister.
I have watched the men kneel and pray at sunset. Rows of 3 and 4.
I did not know if they looked at their watches
Or just the sky.
Time is eternal and internal after all.
The old ways.
New to me.
Saluting from the sidelines.
Reveling in ritual.