February 28, 2023
By Amba Gale
the white cloud arrested
bird taking flight in its sea of blue.
The wind rests gently on the water,
a light blanket of softening ripples.
Nearer to shore, a duck’s wake makes a circle.
What if I should call all this –what I am present to—
The white cloud.
The bird/cloud taking flight.
The wind resting on the water.
The duck’s wake.
Now, some electronic sounds disturb the silence.
Every thirty seconds.
I remember that joyfully, I used to
name those cloud shapes as a little girl.
Cottonwood, there, its limbs bear in winter solace,
points across the sound.
The Barcelona mug which holds my tea
atop Gaudi’s house?
The tea itself still warm
as it soothes my throat on it way down.
The candles, the owls, the butterfly girl, Durga, Buddha, Shiva, Ganesh,
even the cat lying on his back.
Does this alter your perspective?
Perhaps. It has mine.
And I walk into this day, amazement gracing my way.