Look for islands of brief relief,
open spaces in an otherwise crowded day
where you can come ashore for a while,
find safe harbor. Hear again the warble
of hidden birds, and isolate each inter-
woven strand of song, even if you can’t
name the small bodies that sing them.
Click the airplane icon on your phone,
which means no messages will fly to you
with their bad news, landing in the branches
of your mind. Let your thoughts climb
to the sky like the vines of morning glory,
and see the glint of a red pebble in the yard
still stippled with dew—the first wild
strawberry of the season, which you pluck
and eat right there in knee-high weeds,
tiny feast of an instant before the rest
of the day’s worries try to haul you
back out to stormy seas.
—James Crews
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