Masked walks at dawn pad silent, knees complaining down the pastel hopscotch sidewalk, telltale signs of home entertainment. My eyes and ears quicken for mountain lions expanding their territory, yet I’m scared of more than lions.
I tap blind on the sidewalk, creeping inside my domestic cat-skin. Morning light washes over the bashful ground with her lamb’s quarter prolific under a fattened robin’s branch on the old ash tree.
My family nests around board games, and we squirrel canned foods, pulling tiny home dreams from dusty shelves. Pandemic wine, Swiss chard, and grilled burgers are the new red blood of survival.
Mason jars and vegetable seeds replace the flattening fear on Facebook. Sometimes. Local honey in hot tea washes down throats raspy from howling around the fire pit. I don’t want to mistake allergies for viruses. Ambitious dishes climb mountains in the sink.
we chop onions
a cup of water nearby
to dampen the tears
is a student who lives in Boulder, Colorado. Her poetry has been published in Kindred Spirit Magazine and MacQueen’s Quinterly. In addition to writing, she enjoys nature walks, dream tending, crafting, doing yoga, and spending time with her family.
