A breeze slips through the open back door
and lifts the top page
of my notebook.
The paper rises,
settles,
rises again,
a thin white animal
testing its legs
at the edge of my desk.
The corner taps the wood.
Once.
Twice.
Then the whole page
breaks loose,
rolls into itself,
turns sideways,
and skitters
across the floor.
If paper had knees,
this one would be bruised.
A pigeon on the back of an Adirondack
tilts his head
and watches the routine.
I wait for judgment.
He blinks,
ruffles one gray shoulder,
and looks past me
toward an old oak tree.
Seven out of ten,
I decide.
Generous,
considering the landing.
The page rests
beneath the chair now,
half-curled,
one ruled blue line
sprawling like a vein.
Outside,
a dog barks once,
then again,
farther away.
Beyond the back door,
a squirrel scrapes
inside the ceramic pot
where I keep meaning
to plant basil.
Somewhere down the street,
a truck door shuts.
I hum three notes
from a song
someone sang to me once
and cannot remember
the next line.
How many songs
have been whittled
down
to two or three words
and the shape of a voice?
The pigeon steps sideways
along the fence,
one pink foot
then the other.
My notebook waits open.
The page under the chair
shivers
when the breeze returns.
—Iris Lennox
Iris Lennox 