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Iowa City: Early April Robert HaasThis morning a cat—bright orange—pawing at the one patch of new grass in the sand-and tanbark-colored leaves.And last night the sapphire of the raccoon's eyes in the beam of the flashlight.He was climbing a tree beside the house, trying to get onto the porch, I think, for a wad of oatmealSimmered in cider from the bottom of the pan we'd left out for the birds.And earlier a burnished, somewhat dazed woodchuck, his coat gleaming with spring,Loping toward his burrow in the roots of a tree among the drying winter's litterOf old leaves on the floor of the woods, when I went out to get the?New York Times.And male cardinals whistling back and forth—sireeep, sreeep, sreeep—Sets of three sweet full notes, weaving into and out of each other like the triplet rhymes in medieval poetry,And the higher, purer notes of the tufted titmice among them,High in the trees where they were catching what they could of the early sun.And a doe and two yearlings, picking their way along the worrying path they'd made through the gully, their coats the color of the forest floor,Stopped just at the roots of the great chestnut where the woodchuck's burrow was,Froze, and the doe looked back over her shoulder at me for a long moment, and leapt forward,Her young following, and bounded with that almost mincing precision in the landing of each hoofUp the gully, over it, and out of sight. So that I rememberedDreaming last night that a deer walked into the house while I was writing at the kitchen table,Came in the glass door from the garden, looked at me with a stilled defiant terror, like a thing with no choices,And, neck bobbing in that fragile-seeming, almost mechanical mix of arrest and liquid motion, came to the tableAnd snatched a slice of apple, and stood, and then quietened, and to my surprise did not leave again.And those little captains, the chickadees, swift to the feeder and swift away.And the squirrels with their smoke-plume tails trailing digging in the leaves to bury or find buried—I'm told they don't remember where they put things, that it's an activity of incessant discovery—Nuts, tree-fall proteins, whatever they forage from around the house of our leavings,And the flameheaded woodpecker at the suet with his black-and-white ladderback elegant fierceness—They take sunflower seeds and stash them in the rough ridges of the tree's barkWhere the beaks of the smoke-and-steel blue nuthatches can't quite get at them—Though the nuthatches sometimes seem to get them as they con the trees methodically for spiders' eggs or some other overwintering insect's intricately packaged lump of futurityGot from its body before the cold came on.And the little bat in the kitchen lightwell—When I climbed on a chair to remove the sheet of wimpled plastic and let it loose,It flew straight into my face and I toppled to the floor, chair under me,And it flared down the hall and did what seemed a frantic reconnoiter of the windowed, high-walled living room.And lit on a brass firelog where it looked like a brown and ashgrey teenaged suede glove with Mephistophelean dreams,And then, spurt of black sperm, up, out the window, and into the twilight woods.All this life going on about my life, or living a life about all this life going on,Being a creature, whatever my drama of the moment, at the edge of the raccoon's world—He froze in my flashlight beam and looked down, no affect, just looked,The ringtail curled and flared to make him look bigger and not to be messed with—I was thinking he couldn't know how charming his comic-book robber's mask was to me,That his experience of his being and mine of his and his of mine were things entirely apart,Though there were between us, probably, energies of shrewd and respectful tact, based on curiosity and fear—I knew about his talons whatever he knew about me—And as for my experience of myself, it comes and goes, I'm not sure it's any one thing, as my experience of these creatures is not,And I know I am often too far from it or too near, glad to be rid of it which is why it was such a happiness,The bright orange of the cat, and the first pool of green grass-leaves in early April, and the birdsong—that orange and that green not colors you'd set next to one another in the human scheme.And the crows' calls, even before you open your eyes, at sunup.April Mary OliverI wanted to speak at length aboutThe happiness of my body and theDelight of my mind for it wasApril, a night, a full moon and-But something in myself for maybeFrom somewhere other said: not tooMany words, please, in the muddy shallows theFrogs are singing.Warm Compress in April John Angelo Alonzo We’re only halfway through the seasonof swollen ankles, when the rainand longer days catch us by surprise.Not that I really mind. After all,we have enough to worry about and itonly hurts when you turn it this way.?Here we are, all elbows and grazed knees,struggling with my socks by the door,while you massage your back with a warmboiled egg. We feel like we’ve stumbledupon the smallest of miracles, now that we havesomething to hold our bandages in place.?It can’t stay this way forever. But somepart of me finds it hard to believethat our unlucky skeletons could walkon their own. I never expected it to bethis soothing, to feel your hands movinglike hot water over my bones.TeaLeila Chatti Five times a day, I make tea. I do thisbecause I like the warmth in my hands, like the feelingof self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it—warmth and kindness, both—so I create my ownwhen I can. It’s easy. You just pourwater into a kettle and turn the knob and listenfor the scream. I do thisfive times a day. Sometimes, when I’m pleased,I let out a little sound. A poet noticed thisand it made me feel I might one dayproperly be loved. Because no one is hereto love me, I make tea for myselfand leave the radio playing. I mustremind myself I am here, and do soby noticing myself:?my feet are coldinside my socks, they touch the ground, my stomachchurns, my heart stutters, in my hands I holda warmth I make.?I come froma people who pray five times a dayand make tea. I admire the way they doboth. How they drop to the groundwherever they are. Droppine nuts and mint sprigs in a glass.I think to care for the selfis a kind of prayer. It is a gestureof devotion toward what is not always belovedor believed. I do not always believein myself, or love myself, I am surethere are times I am bad or goneor lying. In another’s mouth,?tea?often means gossip,but sometimes means truth. Despitethe trope, in my experience my people do not liefor pleasure, or when they should,even when it might be a gestureof kindness. But they are kind. If you wereto visit, a woman would bring youa tray of tea. At any time of day.My people love tea so muchit was once considered a sickness. Their colonizerstried, as with any joy, to snuff it out. They feared a loveso strong one might sell or kill their otherloves for leaves and sugar.?Teaismsounds like a kind of faithI’d buy into, a god I wouldn’t fear. I think now I truly believeI wouldn’t kill anyone for love,not even myself—most daysI can barely get out of bed. So I make tea.I stand at the window while I wait.My feet are cold and the radio plays its little sounds.I do the small thing I know how to doto care for myself. I am trying to notice joy,which means survive. I do this all day, and then the next. ................
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