This is This.

The grey squirrel
scrambles half way up
the trunk of a Douglas fir,
hangs on, turns to me.
A hawk hangs over a ditch,
struggling to hover
in high winds.
I try to get below
but, with a flick
he is gone, past
a distant tree line
to plummet onto
some unsuspecting prey.

Life, a series of
moments, happenings
hung on a thin thread.

"This is this.
This ain't something else".
Serious as a bullet
gripped between tight fingers.
I never quite understood.

It may be about
living in the moment.
Giving in to the
cruel nature of things.

It may be about me.
Managing the spaces between
missing the boy and
waiting for his return.

Knowing he is safe.
Surviving his absence
making the most of it.
Speaking on the phone.
Not knowing what to say
hearing the distance
feeling longing in his voice.
Knowing that one day
that distance will
be permanent.

But not today.
Today, this ain't something else.
Today,
this is this.

* "This is this. This ain't something else"
from "The Deerhunter".