At 8:47, the sun puts in its first appearance. The cricket in my garden—the only weather forecast I follow—doesn’t miss a beat.



    I wake up mornings now counting
    what’s left of my constancies, like coins
    in a child’s piggybank. That everything
    is in a constant flux is itself constant.
    But I stay grateful for the same sun
    rising over the moutain ridge at cockcrow.
    At sundown, I chirp with the swallows
    as they perch to wait for that same sun.
    My yesterdays and tomorrows are twin
    pictures of what was and will be or might
    have been, like the ebbtide that will still
    be there erasing footprints left on the sand.
    Will there be old footprints there again?
    It is a rhythm of a quiet watch over how
    soon the death we have been born with
    will pay its final visit. Quite like a cricket’s
    chant describes the kind of day I’ll have,
    after my tea, after all the teas of my life.

    —Albert B. Casuga

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