Birds

I am sitting on a porch
The air is still, chilly
Sun dipping below trees and mountains
My hand is outstretched in front of me—still, chilly
It is covered by a tiny pile of slippery seeds
They slide between my fingers at the slightest interruption of the stillness
And birds fly back and forth around us
I am silent, still
Now and again little feet tickle my open palm and fingers, spilling seeds onto the porch- wood beneath my feet
And your presence is in the still of the air around us, and I breathe its sweetness
There is an absence of time and circumstance here
The suspension of a moment in the quiet, cool of November
No before
No after
Only here, now
There is peace
And I feel beautiful here.

It is the lack of circumstances I think, of strings, of the pains of history that make memories so welcome in our thoughts.
They require no commitment, no striving, no choice for self-denial
They are nice but then they are not so real as reality, more beautiful because of its hard truth.