Time

And where did the day go?
A late Sunday of mingling legs,
sermons of hawk and crow,
a choir of mockingbird.

Sitting outside,
legs still reaching for one another,
together;
just words.

The hours, dulcet and vaulting
like dog years.

These are the best unremarkable
days of our life,
when nothing happens
but the bloom of tiny wildflowers,

the kind you have to sink to your knees
to see.