Our waiting measures the space across the lawn, from the stony path by the front door in shadow towards where the children play. In the weeds, by the edge where the lawnmower’s line can be seen, a rustling of leaves reveals something moving. A shrew with heartbeat twenty times faster than ours is oblivious to the dangers of the mid-afternoon sun. Crisp leaves displaced and grass blades disturbed, it makes its way through the undergrowth as if having abandoned a life-long habit of caution. Today the rules of the species are suspended. The time for being a shrew is over. Let all infer the little brain’s internal monologue, hear its rant, a tirade against the sub-terrain, against darkness, against the dizziness that marks this passage as its last.

Compost and Height