And We Walk

We walk.
And she asked how I am and I tell her
Of feeling kicked to the side of the road
And the wrongs that I hold up to the moon each night
With regret and angst and exhaustion.
And I ask her how she is and she tells me
Of the scratches and marring of old hurts
On her heart that will not respond to scrubbing
On her knees even with prayers of grace she keeps
Ready in the cupboard under the kitchen sink.
She listens and I listen.
Trust a large invisible space between us.

And we walk.
I point to the heron
In the river who shimmers
Blue then gray then blue
In the warming heat of the day.

And we walk.
Our breath becoming even and matched.
Our eyes turn upward as she points to the trees
That are complicated, intertwined branches.
She whispers, ‘Last year we saw owls there.
You have to look carefully. At dusk, just before dark.’
‘We come and look for them sometimes,’ she said.
‘And once my daughter wept with the wonder of it.’

And we walk.
I think of the sudden flash of the heron
And the owls unseen and the small foxes that
Might be watching us, bedded down in the
High desert grasses. And the wandering
Streams that were once the sea.
Or so I suppose. I don’t know for sure.
I simply know that for a moment,
I feel resolved as I match her stride.
As we walk and talk. The celebration
Around us more than any
Story we have to tell.