Anxiety

By the goldfish pond at the end of the walk, a spider labors intricately in the overhanging sage and rosemary to build a snare for thirsty prey. A deadly spiral from the center out. Out here on the side of the hill I call my yard, the sun burns through my shirt and the humidity is thick enough to drown the impulse I had to get something done today. I thought to cut the grass, or repair that place on the house where the rain has eaten away the wood. I’ve got gas for the mower, and lumber, everything I need except the ambition of my youth when nothing could stand in my way. But now, I’m not so hungry I feel any urgency to spin anything except around, and head back inside the air-conditioned den to worry about what just happened. Copyright Vol Lindsey 11/25/2011