dwelling above the joy of gardening

It’s best at five floors above the ground,

and it’s best if the weather is pleasant, and by that I mean

a smear of sunlight, and high cirrus clouds.

below, someone tends a community garden, a vegetable

garden, a quiet place of reflection with a work ethic.

this time it's the mother starling who clings at the tangle

of her nest, woven between the garden and me.

she feeds her squawking nestlings, fighting for a taste

of the succulent earthworm.

it's as much as if going to war,–– sibling against sibling, and if one

is pushed from the nest, there it will be, eyes half-lidded,

blanched and naked, to remain on the ground until nature takes it in. 

the little garden continues while being

tended to its necessities without a war of attrition,

each element of all these goings on, ignorant

of my presence because it's my job to let it all be,

to be indifferent, to realize the isolation of my residence,

and the part I play in the natural order of things.