Alsea Spring
Valleys have their advantages–-rivers love ‘em. Alsea
River across the street. Though yesterday found Joseph
at Lobster Creek. Near hour away that, as most everything is.
Not complaining. To this quiet leaning, right in. That is till birdsong
breaks in–-Spring’s mourning dove, raven, swallow, goldfinch trill.
Morn’s Robin. Noon’s buzzard, rides thermals, there over
mountain crest. As below all’s by woodsmoke blessed. While
Deb’s Cafe serves biscuits and gravy (Joseph’s accompaniment:
growl of contentment) and my hand finds smoothest daffodil
bloom and stem
he's ushered in.
*Included in letter for Daisy Barrett Nash's Writers At Play, letter writing series, 2022.
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