Rustle

I sit on a black metal bench. A slate sidewalk square beneath my muddy boots. I live in a central north-eastern town. The south is somewhere, but not on this cold bench at the tailbone of February. No gloves. Fingertips pink. An American flag clangs against its capture on a tall silver pole. Boney tree branches obscure its full trapped flight from my vision.

I am not lonely. The remaining tree leaves that have survived the snows and winds rustle around and above me. The trees long shadows lie past me on a thawing ground.

I am anxious. Transition of winter to spring. I prefer freeze. The hold and promise of time. Yet, here we are, in this three-directional town, waiting and watching the proof of what’s to come.

Bird song echoes off the brick buildings surrounding me at angles and at the ends of white pavement. The rustling of leaves quicken. Their fragile spines scraping the pavement.

This is a murmuration of home. The many homes I’ve lived and loved and pounded against over my years. I still find the cold and the wind company.

Let us all be company in this space. Together.