We've been going through a warm spell in my neck of the Upper Peninsula. Almost every day has been pushing the mid-70s, and the heavens have been eye-watering blue. The sunrises and sunsets seem like Monet canvases, vibrant with oranges and pinks, almost too beautiful to be real. The birds and squirrels seem confused by this last gasp of summer.
Billy Collins watches a singing squirrel . . .
Palermo
by: Billy Collins
The empty plaza was shimmering.
The clock looked ready to melt.
The heat was a mallet striking a ball
and sending it bouncing into the nettles of summer.
Even the bees had knocked off for the day.
The only thing moving besides us
(and we had since stopped under an awning)
was a squirrel who was darting this way and that
as if he were having second thoughts
about crossing the street,
his head and tail twitching with indecision.
You were looking in a shop window
but I was watching the squirrel
who now rose up on his hind legs,
and after pausing to look in all directions,
began to sing in a beautiful voice
a melancholy aria about life and death,
his forepaws clutched against his chest,
his face full of longing and hope,
as the sun beat down
on the roofs and awnings of the city,
and the earth continued to turn
and hold in position the moon
which would appear later that night
as we sat in a cafe
and I stood up on the table
with the encouragement of the owner
and sang for you and the others
the song the squirrel had taught me how to sing.
I hosted a concert at the library tonight by some of my favorite musicians. The band's name was Cloverland, and the music was bluegrass and folk. Lots of fast banjo, guitar, and a slapping bass. The harmonies were close and sweet. By the end of the performance, I felt like I'd blossomed into joy.
I'm in no hurry to see snow flying. I'll take these warm days as blessings, gifts of light and sun and clouds and colors and music. Grace, if you will.
And Saint Marty needs all the grace he can get.
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