Warm here, we sit and face the world.
Cloudy skies and mossy trees exchange camouflage.
Wild grass and waterbirds ignore the houses,
make their traditional patterns across the swamp.
Sun hits the verandah.
A clutter of boxes crowd the old chairs to the western end.
Looping aerials speak and listen but I can't hear them.
Steam rises from two mugs on an old stump.
And we sit.
Our minds start to spin into action.
We swap stories of technologies, bicycles and books.
The garden is rampant.
Arcane parsley grows like sorghum, tall and determined.
I think about making a statue from the prunus clippings;
some wicker creature to celebrate whimsy and spring.
The dogs are sceptical and wag with wry humor.
And so we celebrate our homespun hallelujah.
After: I'm your fan