—   for Kathleen

It seems an ordinary house on an ordinary street
if you do not know that behind it a creek flows,
with a bend widened by dozens of ducks 
quacking up the bank to be fed by their neighbor.  

You would not know that wrens warble by day,
that at dusk a great blue heron drops
to a branch above, her folded bulk balanced on one leg,
one thin line that by magic keeps her upright.  

Nothing would tell you of their efforts to tame
passionflower vines, to scrape layers of red paint,
of their evenings stargazing round the firepit,
work done, hot tea in hand, voices in a whisper.