Aid

At her western window, she's stitching. The needle pricks her sometimes. She moves Her hand aside to not bleed on silk.

Even as she works, her waxed thread in Rows appearing like commas, she sees a Western meadowlark pounce in tall grass

Ever growing, unmowed, outside. When She stops, peering over thick lenses To note the meadowlark has a grub, to her

Ears come, faintly, short songs of its mate. Reaching for her scissors, she snips a tail, Nudges it out of sight behind a stitch.

When this row is done, she'll ask her mate If it will do. If not, she'll turn her mother's Needle and pull thread, loop by loop

Down to the place her mind wandered. O meadowlark, I must look away! Wonder does not always aid one's work.