Poem In The Chinese Manner
By Gail White
Living on the banks of the bayou,
I meet few people who care
for poetry or politics.
Early on a foggy morning,
I drink the day's first green tea.
Spider webs thin as a breath stain the grass.
A nutria scuttles into the water.
Four mallards float by in company.
My corrupt government seems far away
and the writing of heron tracks in the mud
may be all the poetry I need.
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It rained all day Friday, which is a good thing -- we've had so little that the drought and fire risk have been high, and this week has been a terrible reminder across much of North America of the horror of fires. I spent the morning rearranging books, since the shelves are still in little order besides tall books being on tall shelves. Then after lunch we went to the post office, because a friend had sent me what I thought was a quirky gift and it turned out she had sent me the wrong package and I needed to ship the one I got to someone else! We also stopped at the PCC to get more labneh and some other things (they have rainbow pride cake).
I'm still a little crampy but nothing like yesterday. Interestingly, a few people asked me whether I had had c-sections (I did) because it's not unheard of for women to have pain from scar tissue years later, which the doctor in the E.R. had said as well, though my GYN in Maryland had said there was no way to know without exploratory surgery when I asked her about it. So I need to look into PT and other remedies. We're watching the final episode of Three Pines, which is both very good and very depressing and I'm bummed that it won't have another season. Here is what I excitedly thought was a beaver, but then it showed its nutria teeth:
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