What exactly is it that makes a June afternoon

so precious

that you just know it happened before,

or will happen again,

or is happening concurrently somewhere

just beyond comprehension?



Maybe a place where the light is so saturated with love

that it creates visible forms.



I look out across the wide James,

and out at a blue sky with fresh clouds

from under the 9th Street bridge.

The rocks are exposed and sunning themselves,

ospreys are fussing at us from their lofty nest on an old piling.

Herons are fishing and frozen in time

My son – part man, part child, all joy

squealing about a BIG fish.



All that afternoon we take in the soft sound

of the trees

telling us

the rest of our stories

in a gentle language.

Letting us down easy, they whisper.

They weave a tale of all the tragedy and love that came before

and all that’s being made.

And when we will leave this world,

what the others are like,

and everything we’ve ever wanted to know

and never asked

because we are just here

at the river

in the sunshine.