A Slow Quite Morning

small old house with blackberry bushes gathering in the backyard squirrels climbing on a railroad tie stuck in the ground, sitting with folded hands to say their morning prayers. the liturgies of autumn held in broken twigs scattered around st ignatious in the folded leafed piety of late february and me in the kitchen looking out the window with a bowl full of scottish oatmeal. oat's and prayers all morning long, like adam in the garden i busy myself naming the animals i might just call him the abbot i think, looking down into the sink full of dirty dish's they can wait, for later