Morning dew glistens on each blade of grass
as I pull weeds around holly and aster;
I bend and stretch into the morning,
breathe and exhale and breathe
in the pastel scent of the tea roses
as I bend and stretch into the morning,
exhale and breathe
in the scent of peppers and tomatoes
earthy and strong,
breathe to remember this morning
in all its perfection. 

The clumsy, old squirrel in the Douglas fir
fumbles one cone after another,
watches each one crash the hundred feet
to the forest floor, all the while chittering
that he meant to do just that,
to startle us to attention,
that what he was starving for
wasn't food after all.