There’s something peaceful about hanging out laundry. Standing in the sun attaching damp clothes to a rope with wooden pins is my favorite chore.
It is not drudgery, not like digging an asparagus bed or scrubbing the kitchen floor.
I lean on the porch railing and long to fly like the mockingbird, the pillowcase, the clouds,
but it is well enough to be here, now, rooted to this spot in the country where I can hang underwear on the line and not worry that the birds might malign the whiteness of my clothes. Though the mockingbird has tired of waltzing and now composes for my listening pleasure a raucous ditty, a laughing cacophony,