Ren Powell, Poet | Playwright | Teaching Artist

These weeks have rushed by – to say like the wind is a cliché – but this morning I opened the door to the deck to let Leonard out, and the air was still.

It’s just above freezing, so the cold is more of a caress than a bite. Still winter, though:
there’s no bird song – that’s for spring.
Right now the magpies are in deep conversation in the neighbor’s tree.

This time that could be restful, seems to press an obligation.
It’s difficult not to fill the quiet with rationalizations.
It’s a bit like not trusting the body to breathe.

Is this a lesson in dying?
In being?

Still.

I’m grateful for the magpies’ discussion.