Thursday, September 25, 2025, 51*, 92% RH, 0732
A bright light on the horizon where the sun’s usually seen. No dew. No whispers from Mariah. Zsolt doesn’t come inside. Coffee drips into a yellow cup. Zayne refuses his biscuit, goes to the sofa, his room, back to the door. Zsolt walks down the ramp as I cross the threshold.
Like syrup on pancakes, the bright spot spreads through the trees. Whispers are heard: Swamp Sparrow, Raven, Rose-breasted Grosbeak, Lincoln’s Sparrow, White-throated Sparrow.
To have a song and not to sing it,
to ignore the call to come inside
is to sit beneath the widening light,
to be faithful to our ancestral spirit.
Photo: Chris Austin
