168 days have passed.
Five new moons.
168 sunrises.
168 sunsets.
The birds came back to the yard
And after endless noisy discussions
decided to stay.
They built their nests;
raised their young.
Lost a few
to hawks
and winds;
to crows
and the neighbor's cats.
But now they seem to be on the move again-
mornings are becoming quieter.
Two doors down
the neighbor's almost ex-wife
has returned.
His teenaged kids
have been sent on their way;
and the chocolate lab
has been exiled to the backyard.
An outdoor kennel
instead of the bedroom rug.
He of the house
and She
seem made for each other.
"Deserving,"
according to our mutual
next door neighbor.
I kind of think he is right;
though I am hard pressed
to say the same about the kids
or the dog.
The winds have more of a bite now.
It will be awhile before they
soothe and lull again.
And it won't be long before
the trees take on the sparseness of modern sculpture.
The rains that replaced the snow
will soon themselves be replaced.
The groundhogs,
no longer thin,
will disappear into their winter rooms.
I suppose the people driving by,
looking at the large maples
and wraparound porch
with requisite swing,
haven't any idea
that the little tuxedo cat
died of old age 168 days ago.
Or that 168 days is not enough time
to remember the right number of bowls
at feeding time.
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