It’s quiet outside
and I’m wide awake.
The thought of coffee crosses my mind,
but it’s just after 3 a.m. —
much too early for that.
I check the news.
War, hatred, destruction.
Recently, I heard that acres of old farmland in my city had been sold off — to be levelled by heavy machinery and replaced with roads and rows of new homes.
I think about all the lives that will be caught or lost in the middle of it.
The mice and rabbits.
The foxes, raccoons, and skunks in their hidden homes.
The birds and ground-nesting bees.
The butterflies and beetles.
And the plants and trees at the edges,
soon to be chopped, sprayed, or buried.
I wish I could warn them.
But I am only one man,
awake in the dark,
and it is private property.
I can’t stop the fields from being sold.
I can’t save the foxes, rabbits, or birds.
I can’t even warn the bees.
Beside me, our cat paws at the duvet for a moment, then flops down into a warm nest. On the wall, shadows from the red maple I planted sway gently in the breeze coming through the open window.
Soon, native raspberries and blueberries will arrive.
Wild strawberries too.
Food for my family.
Food for the robins, cardinals, and crows,
and anything else passing through.
A little shelter.
A little offering.
Here:
a cat asleep in warmth,
a small plot of earth
I can tend
and slowly bring to life.
A place where wild things are welcome.
It’s now 6:48 a.m.
The robins are singing,
and the sun is starting to rise.
It doesn’t feel like much.
By breakfast, maybe it will.
