The shirt, hung on a hanger, mistaken on first glance.
The refrigerator, placed askew, in front of the Edward Hopper window.
The parallel artists.
The story of the fallen tree.
The tufted titmouse.
Could it be that all of those things, fallen tree aside, are somehow related?
Confidently and without doubt,
The tufted titmouse chose to nest in a hole in my side.
It was not the prairie dog or the cat or the turtle.
I had not heard of the tufted titmouse before then.
I had not heard the singing; I had not heard the story.
Singled out from its banditry of birds.
Singled out from the nuthatch, the woodpecker, the chickadee.
Stealer of hairs and snake skins.
Singing throughout the summer,
Singing ‘Peter, Peter.’
Is it that a new chapter has begun?
Is it that change is around the corner?
Am I to enjoy the present moment?
Am I to embrace my authentic self?
