It’s not shakiness exactly
but this deep uncertainty
baked within my bones
even as I sit with
my coffee as the sun rises
over Pulchowki Mountain.
I am not hidden
under the wings of morning
but discovered and exposed
and left to shrivel
and crack under the
rising sun of this day
and every day
it seems.
What respite
might I find?
Is there no hidden place
of rest?
But then from my neighbor’s roof
(I’m telling you the truth)
the bulbul-upon-the-satellite-dish
comes as emissary of the trees
and reminds me of their
shelter and care.
With a shake of his great crown,
even as he shuffles his feet
nervously in my presence,
he is sure to convey
the goodwill of the trees
and their quiet intentions
of hidden rest and return
for my soul.