Rhythm

Last night I sat outside and watched the fireflies blinking. A plane drifted overhead and joined them, tail trailing red and white lights. Last night I held a firefly in my hand. I would like to make a firefly lantern: dozens of fireflies in a jar, ideal for moonless nights.

The wind this morning is restless. It shares its rhythm with the trees, drifting in and out like sleepy dreams on a lazy morning. Change in the weather warning.

There is a rumbling in my stomach that chants like a Tibetan monk singing, “Feed me, feed me.”

And E wraps her arms around me in a way that says, “Love me, love me.”

The television is a mirror, the washing basket a history lesson, and the dog barking in the distance a call to the gods. They are not listening.

An airplane rumbles overhead, getting lost in the breeze down here; the tall grass dances with the leaves; the barn at attention, unblinking.

There is a rhythm to all of this. Can you find it?