This is how my mornings go:
My cat — when not in my lap —
Sits in the window across from me,
Staring through the screen of volunteer foxglove
At the bunnies, quail, and butterflies
Who frolic just beyond his grasp
While his sister sits behind me,
Watching the hummingbirds
Who gather at the feeder
She can see through the sliding glass door,
While I, distracted by them both,
And by the deer who wander by,
Forget to listen for my toast,
Eventually rising to butter
Two cold hard slices of bread.
How can such peace exist
In a country so at war with itself?
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