The city is settling into summer. Clover is on every lawn, and the night sounds of music, flung from car windows rattles the walls of my apartment. Max and I walk slower, during the day, now. There is no icy wind to push us. The cats stretch on the kitchen floor tile, and deeply inhale of the world outside the door.
I suppose birds love basil. My basil plant has been raided overnight, leaving some of its body, stem and leaf, on the deck. There are blood red impatiens and white begonias out there, too. But they are untouched.
Maya Angelou has gone where all good poets go, straight to the side of God, to whisper in his ear.