The morning is spent, and me with it.
Hours of pulling weeds, spreading wood chips,
planning which shrubs to transplant where…
Some call it gardening.
It’s blatant manipulation, really;
rearranging earth’s flora to satisfy human aesthetic.
From my chair on the porch, I look skyward.
“Ah,” muse has joined me. “The sky is yours to ponder.”
I ponder muse instead. “The sky is mine?”
A scrub jay has been eavesdropping.
REE REE REALLY!?! his strident call inquires.
He flits away, a blue blur among green leaves.
WHO WHOOO WHO, questions a collared dove
from a tree further distant.
Who says the sky is yours?
I glare at muse. “See what you started?”
A lone grey pigeon cuts expanding circles above.
Owning the sky, eh, muse?
Usually, the homing pigeons fly in multiples.
Raised by a neighbor, I am told,
who lets them out regularly for exercise.
Are they his, I wonder? Or does he – in reality –
manipulate earth’s fauna for human enjoyment?
In the course of fifteen minutes three jets have passed overhead,
marring the bright blue sky with jagged white contrails.
Two big crows eye me from a nearby fence.
“No,” I sigh. “The sky is not ours.”
We just pollute earth’s elements for human convenience.
I’ve pondered enough. I’m going inside.
“The sky is mine,” I scoff, shaking my head.
“– to ponder… I said ‘to ponder’,” muse mutters.
“It was just a thought that struck me, like — out of the blue.”
“Tell that to the birds,” I say.
What Rhymes with Stanza? 