A Rabbit Scampered

A Rabbit Scampered

(“Let us know, let us pursue knowledge of the Lord; his coming is as certain as the dawn. He will come to us like the rain, like the autumn and spring rains come on the earth.”  Hosea 6:3)

When I looked up a rabbit scampered
at the edge of my vision. I suspected nothing.

I will not waste this day. But I will write honestly and
say—in my mind, not aloud—I’d rather have lunch with
a well-worn friend
than sit like a solitary monk. I was not made to be
a hermit. I was not created for this tightness in my chest.
I worry that I’m less than enough for anyone.
I worry my reservoir will overflow and everyone will see
what I’ve been holding back. So I stay alone in a town
where the river calls campers and dogs to sniff out
the steelhead and salmon.

Circles are better than points on a map.
Guitars passed around the group until everyone
has their chance to introduce the newest tune
born of love,
or lament,
or laughter,
or loneliness.
The four-bar ending of every song always includes
a quartet of hands upon the singer, a place in the
circle’s center
to see the heart that broke or bragged. The soul
that confessed its fears, its agony at possibly
leaving there unrenewed.

When I got up to leave, Emmit the blind
met me, licked my face like he knew me
and walked me to the door. I think I like
old dogs the best.