This time of day,
she is in the house
and the soup is in the pot

She is slicing roots
from the tips of the onion
and saving them, as she does,
in a basket.

She laughs, thinking:
not every one does this.

And she is drying lettuce
in the cloth on the counter,
and breaking it with her fingertips.

Now this time of day,
when the owl flies out
from the palm,
and the tanglewood
glistens with egrets’ wings,
she is wading in the mud
to meet them,
and the osprey sings
and it is just for her.

Now this time of day,
when the chill comes
from the door,
she brings the firewood in
and lights the fire before supper,
she sees the trees silhouetted
through the window.
And she puts her hands together
and brings them to her chin,
and she sees herself doing it,
and she knows that she is doing it,
and she knows what it means.