There, on the ledge under the horse trailer.

If you didn’t know where to look, you’d never see the tightly wound dry grass, branches and stems. Or what’s hidden inside, resting only a few inches below the aluminum siding.

Protected.

Fragile.

A promise.

A reminder.

Small fingers flutter

Through paper cards

Buried deep

In wood and metal

Must and mildew

Taking new shape

In this forced darkness

Where you can still find me

Mining for light

There is no panic here.

Only a handful of us made it, propelled more by promise than deterred by constant text threads and news feeds.

Social distancing dissolves into connection here, in the ocean and on land. But there’s no denial, no credence given to fallible leaders less capable than a 3rd grader with an iPad.

Information arrives from trusted sources and is discussed with thoughtful consideration, spurred by a brilliant MD specializing in the microbiome, with a perspective on the virus that healthily counters the mainstream noise. He practices medicine in a world of scientific possibility, not reactionary fear. There are other brilliant minds here, concerned about the impact on small businesses and workers living paycheck to paycheck, with the influence to help in their own ecosystems.

I’m playing guitar, singing songs.

Could you come here?

Maybe not in body.

But in perspective, in internal dialogue?

You could, but you’d have to want to breathe.

Breathe in gratitude, exhale uncertainty.

There is no panic here.