Is it a prayer as I squat and study my flowers?
I memorize the shape of the Lady’s Mantle leaf unfolding like origami in reverse. The Ground Ivy spills out between the cracks in the rocks. The long flat Iris greens point up to the sky.
The streaming arch of the translucent Lily leaf.
Coneflower leaves crowd together, each one racing toward the sun. The Columbine waves an open hand her buds still tightly closed.
Minnie talks to me in her scratchy meow warm from the sun and rolled in dried Catkins from the paper birch.
The flap of a pigeon’s wing, the long hum of a single bee, the constant chorus of birds I only know by sight, if that.
The sporadic chatter of baby starlings in the nest as their mother makes herself small to squeeze through a shadow on the molding at the peek of the farmhouse roof.