birdsong

The clock said 3:33 and it made me move. Half of something. Too late or too early, I don't know. Too much of everything undone around me, but I knew I wasn't going to get anything done. Not any kind of work. Not at this hour anymore. It's not in me right now.

That middle of the night kind of urgency isn't in me now. A passing something. But I got up anyway, told myself I had two hours, three hours to write something, anything, for work I could call done.

But, I didn't. It's the same something I didn't write last week and maybe won't write this week and maybe won't write at all, until I'm eating dog food. Or until I can't afford kibble. Anyway, I can't stomach the smell of dog food, smells like dog food.

Now it's 5:07. My left shoulder's tight. My eye's burn a little at the inside corners and the birds are chirping. But just one. One bird is singing her early morning song and there's a quiet surrounding the notes. Long train whistle blowing hollow, far off to somewhere. A car door and the wind wake of passing traffic.

It's too early to go back to bed, too late to smoke a bowl. Almost daybreak. I'm just sitting here doing the best I can.

The path to abundance. Acceptance. Because slow and erratic, inconsistent, that's just how I am. My head. I'm doing the best I can. It comes and goes. Like it's always come and gone.

Girls are sleep in the bedroom, whole nights through these days. Me, too. Mostly. But now it's 5:15 A.M. That lone bird is calling softer.

Wonder if she's thinking about crawling back into the nest, for just another hour of quiet before the day comes.