she turns her head away from me speaks, the words flying towards the succulents she admires such that I cannot hear her “I’m over here!” I exclaim waving at her as if from a great distance she turns her lovely face to me changes the subject, now admiring the chairs we picked up off the side of the road abandoned by what I imagine an old Jewish widower finally letting go of his wife a little tattered, the paint peeling we merely brushed them, replacing the broken rattan seats with wood painted in the dark green colours of the Sea of Cantabria the fragrance of orange blossoms wafts through the air this morning as we sit to tea, speaking under the great jacaranth on which a dray of squirrels scamper frolic, trading insults, as is their custom I speak to my love of Ratatosk the squirrel of Norse mythology who conveys insults between Jørmundgandr the great serpent of Niflheim and the eagle, whose name fades from memory that lives atop the mighty Yggdrasill the ash tree that connects all nine worlds she giggles at the thought of the squirrel and exclaims she loves me, the sound of the piano illuminating the neighbourhood as her only son plays inside such are my mornings 2-IV-2020