When evening trills and heaves
to let the day’s toil slip to silt,
I pause and watch the eagle fly
with her brood; fresh life to
swoop and circle, soon to dip
into the thicket barbs for supper.
And though the door of night’s
ajar, I mend the day with patient
stitch by stitch, and forgive the
brash grind’s laughter at my languid
daze, and hum with the insect’s
last catch of honey blossom
from the pink hibiscus.
Copyright © 2019 Bridget Webber. All rights reserved