a tug boat horn pulls me out of sleep. it is still dark outside. the wind blows, makes a low-tone whistle as it travels through the trees and skirts the building. the trees are mostly bare as only leaf buds dot the boughs.
my thoughts drift: a brief conversation with a homeless man, a chittering sparrow, my grams’s health decline, a woman who miscarried.
“i’m hungry, do you have any spare change? i’m not lying about being homeless. let me show you what’s in my bag — all i have is a blanket and a pair of socks. please, believe me.”
“thank you for talking to me. people don’t like talking to homeless.”
the young sparrow, the corners of its beak maturing from a yellow colour to cream, perched atop a wooden sign post, chittered at its brethren before shitting, then flying away.
my grams, no longer able to chew food, can only eat pureed meals.
a woman who miscarried is surprised by how much grief she feels for the fetus.
the closing line of philip larkin’s poem, The Mower, came to mind while the coffee steeped:
…we should be kind
While there is still time.
everything in the cosmos is interconnected. our separation is bridged through compassion and kindness to others, ourselves, and the world around us. it travels further than the pealing of a temple bell.
