Entry tags:
Survival Instincts

In the news, the wars rage on.
The terrible and the duped
strive tirelessly to make the world
worse. The world, tired herself,
seems to be complying. But while
the stakes do seem to go nowhere
but up, history would suggest we
have always lived under this pall.
have always lived under this pall.
Meanwhile, our attention snags
like a bare foot on every jagged nail
of aggravation. This morning the coffee
spilled. The cat made a mess as you
rushed to get out the door. You hit
every stop light. One of those awful
starts that inevitably heralds, perhaps
manifests, an awful day to come.
It's a survival instinct, I suppose,
to focus on the worst things. But
what is survival, these days? Last
weekend I somehow forgot until
evening the medication I must take
every morning to stop my body
from destroying itself. Behold, a
tiny miracle: I am still here. This
morning I didn't notice until after
rinsing my contacts under the faucet
that I hadn't closed the sink drain
first. A terrible start to the day
that never manifested. And now,
walking across the yard, a raven
is making a hilarious ratcheting
noise with its throat, like those
wooden toys designed to simulate
a croaking toad. Juvenile robins,
summer's first brood to the pair
nesting in the old wreath on the
garage, are flitting about to test
their wings. After two solid weeks
of rain, the sun is only partially
obscured by clouds.