March 13, 2021

My father’s 102nd birthday. 

One year ago today I fled Dublin before a tide of Covid, certain, in the great Petrie dish of American Customs at the airport, that I wouldn’t survive.

Brown headed nuthatch and red cockaded woodpecker. 

Planted a patch of tiger lilies, thinking of my father the whole time. 

Noting the restoration of my strength, from a low this summer. Barely notice hauling those vast bags of topsoil around.