Photo by Jeffrey Hamilton on Unsplash, used with permission.
In the distance, to the right a bit, before the pathway’s crest,
I see a flash of yellow on a feathered breast.
I should not pause and linger here. I really shouldn’t stop.
I’m off to run an errand to the corner shop.
But that tiny glimpse of nature is so weleful to my eye
that I have to put off dinner and take a chance I’ll spy
a meadowlark or oriole if I stray off the path.
I’m willing to go hungry and to face my children’s wrath,
for other things go hungry. Eyes and hearts are meant to fill
as surely as our stomachs, and as I crest the hill,
my choice is vindicated as the lark begins to sing,
finishes its chorus, and swiftly takes to wing.