It is the privilege of the mountain
to be alone, as it is the privilege
of a well. The leaf
is hanging alone on the branch.
What is there, here,
that I had forgotten?

I make coffee in the kitchen,
one window open
to faint calls of robins and mockingbirds,
allowing in draughts of shaded air.

In the stillness
fruit-flies roar by
and disappear, tiny waves slapping
in their wakes.

One spider drops from the end
of a grass stalk outside the window
and hangs. Drops
another inch.

No-one is lonely but us.
Even I, who accept the companionship
of weed-flowers
and mice
am shocked by my capacity
to want, and incapacity
to be filled.

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