I watched a rat, envious of its
speed and balance, as it moved
along the top of a fence.
Then its graceful leap
onto the ground,
as smooth a landing as an
Olympic diver’s splash-free entry.
As it picked up its pace
coming at me, it stared at me
as I stared at it.
The mourning doves started building
a nest under an eave at one end of
the garage, but moved it, twig by twig,
to the other end and onto a platform
I had built for them after last year’s
fledglings left. A hawk noticed
and feathers amassed below.
The westerly view from where
I spend early summer evenings
thinking about things
mundane and enormous
hosts the sun’s descent
through lilac and orange clouds.
There are no sounds except for
the giggling of little children.
(August 2026)
Rob S. Friedman 