Out My Window

Marianne Brems

Bluebirds feed at a birdfeeder,
heads jerking about between bites.

A struggling cyclist sits tall
after a climb up the hill.

A man unhurriedly walks his dog
as if without losses or appointments.

Dandelions soften edges of cracks
on the sidewalk.

A child walks through a puddle,
stamping her feet in the middle.

Cars travel by at neighborly speeds
without hiss or roar or vexing exhaust.

Harmonic minor scales trickle lightly
from the house next door.

A hopscotch grid in uneven yellow chalk
occupies a driveway, waiting for small feet.

Two squirrels chase each other with fluid dexterity
on a tree trunk.

The broken glass bottle in the street yesterday
is gone.

Branches of trees bend toward
the middle of the street like an archway.

For the moment, the rest doesn’t matter.