Church bells, and two mourning doves flying toward them.
These birds are using me for my birdbath.
A blue jay flew up to my kitchen window and looked at me as if to say, “Do you want your life to be wild, or do you want it to be precious?”
I am a screen for the shadows of birds.
The birds are the sky’s shadow puppets.
Now a butterfly is at my window. And a stink bug.
On Nextdoor, my neighbors are trying to pair monarch caterpillars with the milkweed plants they need to survive.
Today is a long drive behind a garbage truck.
I am thankful for trees, which provide homes for so many animals.
On the water, twisted leaves look like origami swans.
Fall: An American white pelican circles a small lake in Kansas.
Nostalgia: missing the bald eagles I saw yesterday.
My fingers are still purple from cutting fresh beets.
I love a red bird on a brown fence.
It’s enough to hear the songbird. I don’t turn my head.
Earlier, I saw an old man carrying a large stuffed dog. “I like your dog,” I said. “Don’t touch him,” he replied.
Suffering is a dwelling with a large doorway but very little interior space.
The female cardinal is the color of the red maple’s turning leaves.