Have lately been thinking about the definition of true pleasure…we are so conditioned that pleasure is obtained by consuming something, or from receiving some sort of recognition from the social realm. When really, it’s so simple, and can be found in the unassuming act of dropping tiny round black Russian Kale seeds one by one into a garden row at dusk, while the wood thrush sings the sun down.
Perched a-top the weather vane,
a-top the cow’s butt pointing
due south at the peak of the barn roof,
that mockingbird proclaims
his proclivity for ripping off tunes.
Radio station on scan never lingers.
What remarkable range, what
preposterous talent. Chest puffed out
he belts out blue jay blues,
song sparrow solos, black crow
raucous rock and roll; he croons
a robin’s latest country hoe-down.
Poor fellow—born with no
song of his own, no apologies