At her western window, she's stitching.The needle pricks her sometimes. She moves
Her hand aside to not bleed on silk.Even as she works, her waxed thread inRows appearing like commas, she sees a
Western meadowlark pounce in tall grassEver growing, unmowed, outside. WhenShe stops, peering over thick lensesTo note the meadowlark has a grub, to herEars come, faintly, short songs of its mate.Reaching for her scissors, she snips a tail,Nudges it out of sight behind a stitch.
When this row is done, she'll ask her mateIf it will do. If not, she'll turn her mother'sNeedle and pull thread, loop by loop Down to the place her mind wandered.O meadowlark, I must look away!Wonder does not always aid one's work.