Friday, September 11, 2015
This little slice of same
The light at dusk spills through our bedroom blinds, yellowed as the faded cotton of a vintage quilt. And there is dust. Copious dust, clinging to the blinds. The scent of freshly laundered clothes drapes like a curtain in the doorway. A red hummingbird feeder hangs from a copper chain outside the window. Feathered neighbors zip in and out, pausing, sipping, chittering, diving. Green and brown silhouettes against a backdrop of golden light.
It is the same light and it is never the same, each day a few breaths shorter. And these are the same birds, as much as I am the same, as yesterday, each of us several thousand breaths older. Together we inhabit this little slice of same, under an awning of rotting wood and concrete, beside a hanging basket of dying geraniums and a sycamore swaying in the breeze, on the corner of York Road South, on this ever-revolving, ancient earth we call home.
Linking up with Five-minute Friday, to the prompt of "Same."