Ways

Am in the shadows of the pine, on this cool morning, watching the squirrel. He tiptoes, lights, nuzzles the ground. Picks his way through the grass I have mown, up to the little path I and the girls have worn through the ivy. Walks, flits over it.

We, I, have made ways. And he, small furry creature, has walked in them. The breeze too makes its way up the hill. Tickles the grass, makes forsythia, bishop's weed and dark English ivy tremble, flutter, wave. A white butterfly dips past. Gray catbird lands in the pine, pecks for insects.

Yes, I, we, these creatures, flora and fauna and invisible breeze make our ways. Let mine be in You. Just this day. No worry for how I will mow, peck, tread, flutter, tremble, dip, pick my way through tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Just this day, let my way be in You.