I go for a walk through
my house past the many
small-paned windows that
separate the enclosed
front porch from the
kitchen, where you can
look through two sets
of windows to a field
in front of the house.

Walk past the gas stove
to the dining room, its
round, wooden table, the
piano, an old dresser
used like a sideboard.
Near the gas fireplace,
another wooden table in
the living room, piled
with books, CDs, bills,
magazines, envelopes.

Stop and look out the
window to the field,
a tall sycamore, oaks, a line
of ragged plum trees,
their hard, inedible fruit
drying on the branches.

Sometimes a great blue
heron will glide onto
the grass, stand nearly
motionless for hours. From
the top of the sycamore’s
360 degree perch, red-tailed
hawks terrorize gophers
and rabbits. I’ve seen
coyotes cross to the middle
of the field, then just sit
and stare off into space.

From living room to
enclosed front porch: low
shelves stuffed with books,
a table strewn with tubes
of paint, cans of gesso
and gel medium, paintbrushes
in a cup. A standing desk,
a sick looking cactus
in a pot. A laptop, where
I type this “daily.” Turn
around to face the kitchen
and you’ve made a circle.

Random lines from my bookshelf:

Seventy-six degrees right now highs in the low eighties
The allegros are waiting while the adagios have the light
Sunlight is collecting in a cat’s foil milk pan

— Jordan Davis, “81” from Poetrycam