Bee

A bee drinks Jeanne's leftover blueberry stains
in the bottom of her oatmeal bowl.
In mid-September, there isn't much fruit around
and I can imagine his surprise.
Oil and fresh water are running out around the globe.
Closer to home, it certainly doesn't rain money anymore.
We look out our backyard at the green trees
waving in the dry blue air and swift silver clouds.
One of our cats died in February, and the one that's left
just barely survived acute illness.  She is fourteen.
We feel our own age rolling down into shade.
We read the radical scripture, there is nothing to be released from.
To practice, we notice the unlikely grace around us.