That Thing You Do

Rain this morning, and a rabbit on the lawn
facing the window from which 
I watched it
shake the wet from its fur 
in a skewed fan of drops
and then carry on with its grazing
though I paused.

Every day something stops me–
three turkeys crossing our yard
as if casing the joint, a cardinal feeding 
its mate, that whoosh sounds of wings
when the swans—white and thin as collarbones
against the blue—pass overhead. 

These things happen whether 
we’re watching or not,
bees hauling pockets full of pollen to their hives, 
bears scratching their backs on rough trees,
dung beetles wadding up and rolling away
their treasure—itself full of microbes,
each one thrummingly busy, life
threading its needle and stitching a world.

What will happen when the thread breaks–
I can’t take that in.  
Like the best old dog
lying down by its leash, not to miss that walk
he won’t ever take, a last loyal thump of his tail–
life as we know it will keep trying
one small green stitch at a time and let that
be what we envision and fight for, that
and the rabbit, clearing its fur of spring rain.

– Maureen Ash