Sitting on the back porch,
a nest of red cushions surrounds me,
the weight of
The Count of Monte Cristo
drags down my hands, my arms
while scents of springtime
privet, honeysuckle, pending rain
collide in my seasonal sneezer.
Smiling spontaneously
eavesdropping on conversations
between
the Titmouse, the Finch and the Wren.
Between friends
you can say anything.
Dropping my book
I join the flock,
my voice ascends
tinkling with laughter
from my nest to theirs.