Consider housekeeping, consider the rain. Consider
the fly dancing on the window. It herky-jerks its
relentless heartbreak of trying to get out.
A fall warbler appears on the seedy maple stuffing
itself for its long flight, feathers weathery dull in
post-connubial anonymity, hard to identify.
Consider the dirty window. You lift it to see more
clearly. The fly stumbles up with it, then out.
The warbler is gone but you can see the rain, its
needled finery gently wetting the patient, nodding
trees. They gossip in whispers among themselves.
Consider the lifetimes spinning out before you, each
small choice weights in one direction or another:
1) You stare out the window with notebook and
pen, channeling the array of tiny beauties before you.
2) You rummage for bucket, sponge and squeegee,
vinegar? ammonia? the window needs cleaning. You
clean it and the rest of them, too, for you are responsible
and efficient. You take a nap.
3) You stare out the window, on the limb of your
thought of how dirty the window is, it really should
be washed. This grey tatter grows between you
and the real rain. The notebook dies on the table.
Consider. Choose a door. Open it. Think
of what is the most important house to keep.