I hear a chickadee singing this morning.  I see him in the tree, sitting in the sun.  I’d sing too if I was him.

I live in two worlds; a small one (made of mostly four rooms), and I imagine myself in a bigger one.  Not the one this president is executive-ordering, the one full of revenge, zest and zeal for cruelty and greed, for name-calling and threats,  but one with hope and beauty and joy in it.  One where we treat each other with respect and kindness.

Three crows sit in the trees, as a squirrel, with what looks like a Dorito, scampers from branch to branch.  They fly at him, try to get him to drop it, but he holds on.

At 4^th Street and University on New Year’s Day, a young woman got hit. Just two blocks from here. The driver turned himself in a week or so later, after his passenger reported him, and the car was found with a broken windshield. I hope that she can return to her life, will be able to think and move and move beyond what has happened to her.

Five o’clock; silver clouds, sun, trees.  The tree trunks and branches break the sky into shards like a stained-glass window.

And I take my first steps between parallel bars.  Lurchy and hard, I move forward and turn, lurch my way back, six, seven, eight times.  My body remembers how to walk, but it has to learn again how to move, get past the pain. 

Nine wild turkeys wander into the backyard.  One flies to the peak of the neighbor’s garage.  The others stand on the ground barking at him, as he grooms himself in what’s left of the sun.

After ten weeks, my back brace is off, for good.  I can twist and bend again.  I can pull on my sock without taking out my windpipe, without bruising my hipbone.  When I first got it, it felt like armor, but I don’t need that kind of protection anymore.

It’s been eleven weeks since I was hit by that driver in that car. Eleven is my favorite number. 

jks, January 2025