A Strange Stillness
by Scott Shaffer

After last night’s storm, no one’s out this morning,
except me and our Shetland Sheepdog.

A soothing symphony of tweets, cheeps,
and steady drizzle plays softly in the background.

A strange sort-of stillness hangs over our little lake.
Strange because I’m filled with soggy joy as I shepherd Rudy.

It’s a wet 57 degrees, but no wind and mysteriously pleasant.
Drips slipping off my cap’s brim don’t lessen my odd elation.

Momma Duck nestles regally over her babies on shore,
a living shield from drops and predators.

In the satisfying quiescence, Rudy and I pick up
fallen, jagged branches and transport them to the street.

We notice our recycle bin has tripped, spilling its curated contents,
which we start to collect and return.

Even amidst the spewed litter, under the drip-drop canopy,
a gleeful quiet pervades neighborhood and soul.

Strangely, Rudy sits quietly on command at roadside,
not straining against his leash to herd cars rushing to work.

As we reach our backyard, we turn and glance across the lake:
A pair of rarely-seen Great Egrets promenade on the far bank!

Can I package this peace, replicate upon demand
this sense that, “I’m in a good place, a place I was made for”?



 

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