Nothing else to do this morning but watch the rabbits, thrashers and blue jays in our yard feed on the seed block. The mountains could be a postcard. Not a single cloud. And doesn’t it all go better with a cup of tea? Isn’t that a thought worthy of Agatha Christie? Nothing dares disturb our pleasant desert universe— no one asking me for a strand of my hair, no one invading my mouth with a swab, and not me waiting in a motel room for the call from the hazmat team telling me your bones, the fragments tweezed from the ash heap that was our heaven, are tagged now, ready to be claimed in their vinyl bag far too big, forever too small. Not even a car on the road to break the quiet.
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Oh, X.P. what a lovely bunch of associations both delightful and sad. Best kind of reflection. The link to Agatha Christie would never have occurred to me, despite loving her mysteries. And perhaps Agatha's implied "drink tea and carry on" moniker that all of England seems to rely on. Your poem is not a "carry on" dismissal though, but an opportunity to really look and feel. thank you!
Similar thoughts as I walked the dog in the predawn light this morning. The silence only briefly interrupted by the cry of a distant coyote……