This Recurring Kindness
by Tera Freese
Every August it happens
white blaze of afternoon
ripens the fruit
makes even the birds
fat as queens.
Here they are now
twittering and thrashing in the high
sweet grasses, dark wings dusted
with deep gold pollens
throwing confetti of fireweed
days of merriment and feasting.
Even in their tiny eyes –
a bright exuberant health
as in something that has come ’round again
to meet it’s full potential.
These are the same mourning doves
that eat dark oily seed
from my pale palm after the curtain
of Autumn has dropped.
Yes, even when there is not this bounty,
there is still enough.
For that which dwells in the first hung star
is there, too, in the last to fade
to morning’s tide.