Sitting On Ben's Bench
The sun warms my back as I sit on the bench that Ben made.
I watch the dog chase a rabbit into Sam's woods; the dog returns, tail down. He lies on the porch for a few minutes, and then ambles away.
I hear the creek, the squawking of the jays, an invisible jet, a sharp bark from down the hill; not my dog.
The acorn woodpeckers are back, flashes of white and red in the leafless trees.
I sit longer on the bench that Ben made. I sip my tea, and I wonder if I am becoming part of the seeming randomness all around me: the dog, the birds, the sounds.
(Not aware of my decision to do so, I realize that I have moved to the deck that Ben made.)
It is warmer there; I lie in the winter sun, and so does the dog.
We have an understanding, the dog and me,
but only I know the makings of Ben's noble heart.