I knew a man once who invented a thing that could bring the sound of the birds
from the outside of his house to the inside.
How strange, I thought, my friend has too much time on his hands.
My friend’s name was Bob. I suspect it still is.
Bob came to mind this morning as I sat on my front porch for my morning meditation.
It is getting very close to raining:
grey, still, a vague sweet smell, bird chatter lazy.
I thought how much I love doing my meditation outside where my senses hold me in place
like braces that keep a house from sliding off its foundation.
Minnesota summers are short and precious, intense and much appreciated
though the citizens don’t dare express this
I know that I will have to go indoors when winter comes.
Where I will sit in a box before a fire while the sun rises
And listen to the familiar hum of the refrigerator.
Bob, in his box, will listen to birds.