It is evening. The last load from the dryer is still damp:
Across the dining room chairs the blanket is spread.
Chickadees call, announcing their territorial pride;
I answer them from the kitchen where dirty dishes mark mine.
I wander whistling into the bathroom where my son sits,
Shooting bubbles with his bright green gun,
Still calling to the chickadees, I spread one more damp sheet
Across the dresser. My upstairs neighbor sits outside
Under the flowering crab, reading a thick book.