Not in the yelling of the crows,
or the fights of the macaws in their cage by the road,
and not in the street noise,
or the late night revelers’ shouts,
or in the dramas and hyped up tragedies
that slither into our living room via satellite from New York
or wherever that mind junk is stirred up.
But in the bird song in the trees,
and the scent of midnight rain,
in the waves kissing the beach at dawn,
and the conversation on the deck over coffee,
my still warm cup clinking the table next to my book.
It is in the wake of the fishing boat bobbing its way out to sea,
and it is in the turning onto the last page, where the author hugs me tight,
and I cry.
— Neal Lemery 3/19/2013