I sit on the cabin porch
and wait for the rain,
listening to thunder
and the rattle of the neighbor’s tractor
as he tries to get his grass mowed in time.
The wind comes up, the daisies and the firs
send message —
I can smell it, I will see it soon

A doe is nonchalantly
grazing in the meadow,
little birds are quiet
while trucks keep rolling home,
and the rain is here
fresh and rhythmic on the roof,
the place we are suddenly grows small
but we are dry
and there is room enough.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 27, 2019

Mice tease out the seeds
from grass heads, and they weave
the soft chaff into bedding

(I know because
when we moved lumber
we found a stash)

I don’t know if they camp
or homestead. I don’t know
if we uprooted them
or if they were long gone

I know they have busy hands
and keen noses, and they seek heat
and water, and soft fiber,
and they get around.
I know they can live without us
but I think they would rather not.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 26, 2019

The wind sings through the fence,
tousles daisies, sends waves
of wheat-colored shimmer
through otherwise green grasses,
lends a gentle respite from the heat

We work on tasks for the mind —
how to see things, how to count,
what to count as real, what counts,
cicadas keep us company –
the welling and receding of their song
is counterpoint to trees’ rustle
and drone to melodies
of distant birds.

©Wendy Mulhern
June 13, 2019