privacy is the moments we share
Under the rocks of autumn, a community scatters for cover as I hover above and wonder. What are they doing there?
What am I doing, disturbing the huddling peace of those whose meaning escapes me for the inattention I offer until overlapping need. Not that they’d want it otherwise.
Under klaxons of hospital code I watch a daughter’s-age doctor show off her left-hand gleam to pantomimed squeals of nurses. Digits bent to exclamation marks. Emotions as open as my curtain.
Privacy is the moments we share, not what is seen, whether under a garden’s rock or in halls of birth and spectators passing.
