I’ve taken to sitting at the dining room table in the late afternoons—reading, writing in my notebook, cogitating.
There are several sparrows that like to sit in the burning bush right outside the window.
I sit and read and write; when I look up, I see the birds balanced in the branches. Sometimes one of them is staring in the window at me.
I stare back.
We study each other.
Each time this happens, it feels miraculous—that act of seeing and being seen.

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