Each day will only be another day.
Traffic starting, stopping, on I-85.
Where the feeder hangs, under an old live
oak, birds cluck and mutter, as if to say

things are fine, that it will all be okay,
things work out if we only let them be.
Inside, a woman shrugs, thinks Fine with me . . . .
Another cup of coffee would be nice.

Without a moment’s pause, not thinking twice,
She pulls her curtains open, waits to see.

© by Phebe Davidson.
Used here with the author’s permission.