Earthblind

I’ve pulled blue tails off of wild skinks.

I’ve blown dandelions and scattered weeds far and wide.

I’ve yanked four-leaf clovers from the ground,

and I’ve prayed I haven’t drained them of their luck as I’ve drained them of their life.

I let my car send out too much exhaust, because I’m too nervous and too tired to get out of the car, to step outside, to be a human being.

I get mad at the power lines for marring the landscape, and then I remember that electricity is the only reason I can take pictures and send them to you.

I break eye contact easily, but I can’t run a stop sign – even when no cars are coming – if I see a robin in the grass watching me.

I’ve started noticing the small things that look back at me.

And I’ve come to regret all of the times I praised the waves in the ocean,

but didn’t look out for the lilies in the pond.