from a branched bird

no snow on the ground in this north american january, so you mow the lawn. you are hopeful.
that neighbor looks longingly at you. the one you met briefly at another's back yard potluck last august. she's wondering if you have gone mad, or are simply as dissatisfied with things about, as she is.
she is grieving the loss of her partner, as she knows that in a year or two they will move on to another.
the requiem she hears clear is one of the happiest songs she can recall, and she is sobbing controllably. her halcyon dreams are brighter than when they first met.
you know well not to look the way of her window, as she told you: "crying just feels right some times. it's not that i am upset or messed-up". you feel the implications of her words toward the rear of your skull: 'please stop looking at me when i look at you'.
& both understand that the warm belly of a kingfisher is yours, if you could simply stop plugging your ears, eyes, mouth, ducts.
you both found something that feels real in your controlled outlets. in the pockets of the problems of you longest hung winter coats, there were beautiful and useful treasures.