Richard

 It's mid-winter and the sunrise knows it, and wakes me 

with a shudder; I'm just a man.
 


For 5 cold mornings in a row, the beautiful pheasant 

has come to our patio to steal some of the dry catfood, 

sometimes right in front of my cat.



The house is still, and I enjoy the Sunday newspaper 

with strong, dark coffee; the smell of it dances 

around in the early darkness.



Driving to church there is bright, eager sunshine, 

and the shadows of bare winter oaks stripe the lane 

like a zebra; shadow, light, shadow.



At church I pray for my favorite aunt, Anna, her clock 

seems to be quickly winding down, dear lady, widow 

of my favorite uncle, Richard; mostly I just pray 

that she finds her center.



The pheasant is a male, strikingly colored, 

so beautiful, in fact, that I've begun to scatter extra catfood 

to draw him back; we have become his grocery store.



I tell my wife that if he comes a 6th day, I'll give him a name, 

Richard; but he never comes again.

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