I dust the house every day. But the cobwebs creep in, dangling from corners. Fine dust settles on every surface like an unwanted guest who gets a kick out of knowing that he is unwanted. I check the windows, draw in the curtains, slide mats into the gaps under tightly shut doors. Yet, a fly gets in, buzzing across my breath. I grab the swatter and rise. The fly settles on a porcelain figurine of the Buddha.
in the middle of night
a white lotus
The motionless lake mirrors the morning. There is nothing the dew has not touched, lending the park a greener green, and a quieter quiet.
I step closer to the water, almost afraid of disturbing the air.
A great flap of white takes off from somewhere near the edge in a magnificent display of feather power. Gracefully, the stork circles the lake once as if to find me before soaring away into the clear sky.
on the day’s checklist