play, Port Glasgow, poem

There's a thing I like to do in the car when I'm traveling the back roads of Port Glasgow. I like to take the car out of gear and see how far the impetus takes it. With windows rolled down I trundle past field of green and long shafts of ruddy-seeded grass until the car either comes to a standstill or starts to go backwards. Then I give it another go, and another. Obviously, if there are other cars around I don't indulge myself in playing with the car and the road and the undulations in this way but it is remarkably free from traffic where I roll along.
I do it because often I need an anchor into the passing time. Something that will hold me in the present tense. Keep me from the undertow of swirling thoughts and emotions that threaten to sweep me out of this lucky day I have been gifted. And when I'm anchored in the present tense I start to notice and breathe and take life in. For there is only life in the present tense.
These cows watched and didn't know what to make of it all as they chewed in the late sun.
So, a poem from noticing today:

wires run
between poles
in town
strung out
like musical staves
and there
- sun dotted-
a dozen starlings
hop and fuss from
wire to wire
up and down the scales
A-sharp to G
D flat to E to F
composing
a movement
an evening sonata
across the top
of the stopped traffic
waiting for green
to go