On this gray morning, sitting on the porch,
my whole self tunes and re-tunes to a single
swallow stitching figure eights above
the field, attunes to garden marigolds
all radiant and red, and wetland rushes
wicking gold, the river currents thick
and brown from mudslides after last night’s rain,
the sour scent of autumn in the air—
and for a time, I’m charged with raw contentment,
visceral and deep. How is it true
that if I could, I wouldn’t change a thing—
this moment forged by ache and grace, this hour
that knows no striving, this wet-winged astonishment,
this quiet koan: nothing’s missing.