The struggle with what they call the mind
opens new fronts. Migration, which should drop
new birds into my garden,
has not yet started, and the residents
have made themselves scarce this year.
I’m close to giving up my resistance
to deity, and to the admission
that solitude in age is not
the greatest refuge after all.
Hanging the hummingbird feeder
is a variant of my nightly trek to the corner
for the comfort of a sundowner.