By an old guy's standards,
a hot day on the Pacific Coast.
Heat cooks the sky
to an ashen blue.
I work in the garden some.
Gardeners volunteer
join the Sisyphus
crew. They toil through
myriad cycles that roll
around to starts. Water,
soil, sun, seed, sprout,
plant, blossom, veg, fruit.
Dig and pull and lift and tend.
It all collapses like a circus
tent. Winter eats leftovers,
belches frost. In Spring,
it's Finnegan Begin-Again.
Heavy mud, dead stalks.
In the now, I fall back
into a chair, guzzle water,
dash some on my face
and neck. A crow lands
on a wire and keeps its
beak open to let heat
out of its body. The bird
and I just happen to be
now here in this tiny wedge
of nature. We finish
tasks as assigned,
and it's fine, just fine.
You and me, bird, you
and me and that
minor, muscled god
whose name hisses.
hans ostrom 2025
