Singing itself

The breeze strokes the leaves of the trees
that my son calls weeds
but I call wonderful.  They will spend the day
thinking about turning brown and drifting
to the ground.
Soon it will be fall, but not today.
 
Today, the birds wait on power lines
heads tilting to catch the sun.
They send an occasional song through the air,
which lifts and joins hands with others,
singing itself across my wagon-wheel potting shed. 

The lavender digs her toes a little deeper
into the dirt. Prickly pears
widen their shoulders and stand up straighter, fuchsia 
cups on the tips of their tongues. 

On the west side of the city, someone’s motorcycle
is growling its way forward too fast and I worry about safety - 
his, hers, mine, ours, everyone’s.

Wind chimes whisper my name and I answer silently,
so as not to break the spell.