The moon has risen at half past six in the afternoon.
It hangs almost full, in the eastward sky.
The garden lies half in sunlight, half in shadow.
Sparrows hover around each of the four sticks
that protrude from the birdfeeder.

My cat rolls from side to side on her back
beneath the feeder. She chants at the birds,
but they pay her no mind.
My other cats rests in the tall grass a few feet away,
grass that I've left tall just for this purpose.

The Agapanthas are in bloom and stand as witnesses.
These cats, those birds—the wind.
A baseball hits the glass pane of a mobile
my lover built. Two 6-light windows in wood frames
hung at odd angles twenty feet above ground.

They are weighted to the earth by a block of cement.
At breakfast, he told me the plan was
for the wind to lift the ball and smash the pane of glass.
He wants it to break. It's part of the design he says.
I've grown to think it quite beautiful—so large…

I see the sky and trees through the glass,
as it reflects our own lovely garden
now in full shadow.
All about me the wild life is carrying on:
chirping sparrows, jays demanding more peanuts,

squirrels chasing about, the cat praying something with wings

will fall from the feeder. The tall grass trembles.
The moon travels south. I am secure for the first time
in my life knowing that it will all happen again tomorrow,
yet differently too. And that's just fine with me.

Stellasue Lee is the author of the Pulitzer Prize nominated Crossing the Double Yellow Line (Bombshelter). She was given an award by the Board of Library Commissioners and Mayor Tom Bradley for storytelling in the Los Angeles public libraries. Lee is the poetry editor of Rattle.