The mid-morning sun-toasted deck rails frame the still heavy-dewed grass, their cracks and crevices attracting study by a large questing wasp. She alights, hazarding side-blown fuzzy seed balls, in regular parabolic cadence to probe another spot a foot down rail.

I look up through a pair of skylights, as a binocled watchman, at brushes made of new-green leaf and red-brown buds gently scrubbing the sky, back and forth as if training themselves for the future. Blue canvas remains clean and unperturbed as a yellow helicopter swarm swirls past. A lone white sun-fired butterfly emerges, passing quickly like Brownian motion across my view.

I too-quickly burst from home’s door, launching a red-winged blur that marks a trail from the shrubbery, pulsing air rapidly, beating my ears with its musical tones in two registers. I’ve startled her again into the cherry tree down the hill.

Several moments pass before my senses awaken to smell wet spring oak. A hidden resident insistently serenades its sought partner.

I have known all this previously, perhaps differing in detail, before succumbing again to my existence within boxes - a box for eating, a box for sleeping, a box for interests, a box for working, other boxes moving me between boxes of my life, and someday one more box not yet made - and forgetting.

Tranströmer would do it better.