After the rooster disappeared, the doves
refused breakfast. Lined up along the wire
they watched me scatter scratch in a sweeping
figure eight. Their eyes followed the swing
of my hand. In each small throat
a coo waits. Without the rooster’s crow,
there is reason to invite quiet.
In the back garden, moonflower seeds have sprouted.
The dog has dug up the purple robe
looking for a place to lie down. Warm water
dribbles from a green striped hose.
These days I notice bumblebees nursing
at the hummingbird feeder; thin, curled leaves
on an apple tree. Twice a day
I check the pepper plants for worms.
I know how long the yucca has been in bloom,
and when the first morning glory blossom appeared.
I walk slowly enough to see the world in detail.
I imagine myself some kind of older plant. Like trumpet vine,
with a flexible stem that follows a rough adobe wall.
Or Spanish broom with prickly solid stalks
and small occasional flowers. Not yet an old
gnarled cottonwood, but headed in that direction.
—Judy Fitzpatrick most recently worked for the SouthwestWriters Critique Service. She taught continuing education writing classes for thirty years. Two chapbooks of her poetry have been published. These poems are from her manuscript entitled: Headed in That Direction. She lives in Corrales with her husband and a large 4-legged family.