this footbridge leads to nowhere
so it seems across the gulley
just winter grass and cactus
low mountain ridges
and low clouds all
in almost black and white

between subdued and somber
open shadows leading
in straight lines

some joys are not bright baubles
a frozen moment
a quiet image

just breathe and sit
and take it in

Today while sitting
Try to nourish a little smile
While still attending to your breathing
Smiling breathing

I’m the meditation teacher
And I smile

the Cardinal in full plumage
is a handsome bird
both male and female

but the adolescent Cardinal
not so much

it looks a splotchy ragged mess
its act not yet together

adult plumage will come of course
but acts don’t stay together

adulthood isn’t a plateau
of competence and handsome looks
that last until the breakdowns of old age

every year the grownups molt
have to change their feathers
rebuilt their looks and means of flight

people are like that too
without the features

and more staggered periods of change
less assurance that the new
attitudes friends and habits
will work that they’ll feel comfortable
within their skin
with or without features we
are all subject to the weather
poisoning of water the local pecking order

and then death

we all seem to flit around more than is needed
we all sing our joys and needs and warnings

we all proclaim our right to be here
no matter what our plumage
no matter how we sing

these skies
rich deep blue slant
late afternoon fall light
the turning leaves
and ideal warmth

these are here today
here where there are no
forests burning
or hurricanes with threatening waves
and rain

not here not at least today
nor the riots
no major hate crimes here
of late just discrimination profiling
the routine wrongs
that unaffected groups don’t notice
invisible as the greenhouse gases
piling up heating up the air
threatening the planet

good weather is now precious
trending toward extinction

like much we take for granted
our sources of clean water
food and life

No longer frozen but still overcast the lake talks to itself
Converses with the trees lining its banks
The clouds and shadows
Reflecting all

As if to show it understands
Giving back each nuance
Changed by the features
Of its liquid face

Flown over now and then by
Neighbor ducks or geese
Perhaps an eagle

A very quiet winter afternoon

I calm into it
Become the sympathetic ears and eyes
And being

A part of what the water sees

So many lines
Breaking the surface of the pond
Branches sticking up
Shadow branches going down
Beneath the surface

So many zones of greens
Pale blues slight ripples
Scattering reflections of their own

Mid-scene a branch forks up
Two turtles sunning looking up
As if to watch the heron poised
Gathering its thoughts to speak

A mesmerizing scene
Chance and my camera
Captured

Each day is filled with magic scenes
Our minds aren’t trained to see

The White Egret has just landed
Poised it strikes a handsome pose
Enchanting calming

Of course it has no concepts
And does not feel enchanted
It sees us when it does
Through its own different eyes
And partially different needs

This is just a picture
Not the living thing

It is a kind of half-way place
A rest-stop on the road
Between this being classified
As bird and labeled as White Egret
And us

A minor homage to the world
Of living beings
A salve or balm to sooth
Our souls or hearts or minds

Whatever’s deepest in us
That feels delight and fear
Promise

And says to another living being
Namaste peace to us all
Salaam Shalom

A horse without a fancy barn
Without stable hands to groom it
A horse perhaps on a modest farm
Or a poor family’s farm in winter

If lucky there’s a blanket some
Straw a tub of water
If lucky a few more horses
Warm bodies like your own

At least you have a place
A field to age in
That is unless you’re carted off
Slaughtered and then canned for food

What happens when a man grows old
Without a place to call his own
Perhaps without a blanket
Living underneath a bridge
Perhaps with others
Or alone

With luck a charity coat or jacket
Warms his back or hers
With luck there is no violence

And even those horses on fancy farms
Those retirement home wealthy
Find bones getting brittle
Brains too often damaged

There too they end up lucky if they feel
They really have a home

i
the wooden walkway
tinted warm with early light
is straight and narrow
it structures space

then ends at boat dock
a stopping point somewhere
the eye can rest

ii
and looking south the wondrous
shades of blue
the dawn-lit woods
mirrored in the magic lake

for someone who grew up near water
this is the quiet part of coming home

iii
and then at dusk
the sister lake the city park
where people who aren’t wealthy
recreate

one of the city’s lungs
a vital chamber of its heart

a place for people from around the world
where cares mellow toward resilience
and everyone shares
almost common ground

People at a homeless shelter do not
Look alike, talk alike
Or act alike.

In the day room where they also eat
One man is sprawled out on a couch
Beside two other men in chairs, one black
One white, both reading
Intent, alert
They’d blend in many places

I do not know their stories
But then I don’t know many
Wonder if I really know my own

It’s 98 degrees outside
The first day of October
These aren’t statistics hanging out
They’re people

Others sit against a shaded fence outside
Despite the heat
Despite the looks of passers by

They’re people too
With different preferences, delights, solaces,
Wounds and scars

Men, women, sometimes a young family
Trying to keep it all together or get it back
With the help of other people
Volunteers and staff who have their own
Blessings, hopes, and scars