On my drive this morning,
I passed a family of sandhills cranes
congregating at the side of the road.
A bald eagle soared high above
and a hawk flew straight and low.
A group of turkey vultures spiraled
above a stand of trees.
Alone in my car rushing down
asphalt highways, I marveled
at nature in action.
She sashays to
a waltz wafting on
the western wind
Across moonlit
marsh
above placid pond
over roiling river
She dances past dawn
softening the sunrise and
hushing the waking world
I approach my victims with stealth and murderous intent. One by one, I pluck them from their destructive and self-absorbed lives.
For the most part, they never see it coming and before you
know it, they are struggling for air, legs flailing until they are, at last,
still. Later, I will discard their bodies and start again.
It may be a futile attempt given how many of them populate
the area, but I do what I can to protect my precious flowers, no matter how
lacy their leaves have become. Damn beetles!
I rush down the highland slope
compelled by gravity toward thinner air below
green gold and blue blur
trees bow at my passing
birds startle and
rivers shiver
all other sound is lost beneath
my roar
Miranda left the store, list still clutched in her trembling hand. She dropped the paper in her purse and fished out her keys as she hurried to her car.
Once inside, she locked the doors and turned the air on full
blast. She couldn’t be sure if it was another hot flash or adrenaline, but she
felt in danger of spontaneous combustion.
It was not like her to be so bold, to take matters into her
own hands. But the time for waiting was long past and action was imperative.
She had less than 2 hours left to check everything off her
list.
Miranda pulled the list from her purse. It spanned the
length of the #10 envelope in her tiny, measured block print. Fortunately, most
of the items were already checked off.
She puts the car in gear and navigates the twists and turns
to Rib Mountain State Park and parks near the visitor center. Her sturdy shoes
carry her across the uneven path, through the maze of large rocks and to the
tower.
She begins the climb. These are the last moments of “life
before.”
As she reaches the third platform she pauses to look out
over the city she’s always called home. It’s small by Chicago or Minneapolis
standards but it holds everything she needs. All she is finally claiming and
curating.
Finally at the top, out of breath but smiling, she carefully
releases the paper cranes she made earlier in the day. Her heart flutters along
with the paper as it makes its way to trees, bushes and ground. She feels good
as she takes her list in hand and crosses off WATCH CRANES FLY and CLIMB RIB
MOUNTAIN TOWER.
Only two items remain on her list and less than an hour
before she begins chemo.
Quickly, before she can scold herself out of it, she grabs
her pocketknife and carves her name in the top deck’s railing, then begins her
descent.
She’s nearly back to her car when she remembers to cross
CARVE NAME from her list and sees that there’s just one item left. She takes a
moment to look around and notices a clump of hyssop. She snaps some stems and
brings the flowers to her nose, inhaling deeply as she walks back to her car.
She thinks that maybe she will plant some outside her condo as a reminder to
SMELL THE FLOWERS every day.
The cat wanders past looking quite pleased with herself. After a two-day absence she has returned. The prodigal kitty, fattened on songbirds and squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits. She lumbers, belly hanging low, mewing to herself a lullaby. I look out the screen door before locking it and spy the rodent head she left, a gift, no doubt, and peace offering after her wild outdoor adventures.
I know we shouldn’t let her out. Our village has an
ordinance forbidding cats from roaming. But she was wild when she chose us and
we simply cannot convince her to remain indoors. She darts between my legs when
I carry laundry out to hang it on the line. She climbs the screen and yowls,
demanding to be set free. She has a
life, after all. Social engagements to keep. Lovers to meet. Rodent populations
to control.
Soon she will mother her third litter of kittens. I promise
myself I will take her to the vet to have her ‘fixed’. But I’ve broken that
promise twice before. I love the blind eyed babies she bears. Their early
wobbling steps. Their fierce need to nurse. The way they quickly fluff out.
Their endless curiosity and antics. They make the world a bit less lonely. They
bring me joy. They are my family too.
(Memories of Misty, one of our family cats from my childhood.)
