California

It is hot and still.
The blue jay
is eating the cat chunks
from a dish on the stones by the pond.
He knows I am here,
but he's turned his back
so he won't have to tend to his fear.

Just the same
he eats fearfully. The air
is thick with heat.
A glass vase on the table
holds the same blue as the jay.

The jay flies up from the pond. Suddenly,
as I have never understood before,
I understand the Carlos Williams poem
about the plums. I understand
heat in mid-afternooon.
The way it holds all life
in stillness—silence—
in the sameness of the light.