A Stream of consciousness from the stairs above

Sounds of a creaking door…
As I write about the sounds
Of water hitting bedrock below
A crescendo from thirteen feet above.

More than a trickle,
Less than a roar.
Yet still a fall.
A lazy stream’s descent.

Laughter behind a glass door.
Nude.
The house has finally warmed
To a temperature that’s
Birthday-suit worthy.

The buzz of a yellow jacket
 In search of food for winter.
 My fingers and nose tell me,
 It’s too cold for this creature
 To be flying about.
 Yet it defies logic,
 Buzzing close to my ear.

Wasp stings are a powerful,
 A Solid blow.
 I remember the time
 Three tagged me on the back.

BOOM! I felt it.
BOOM! again.
BOOM! a third time.

It was between the second and third
I realized what was happening.
Then I ran
Yelling, crying,
Screaming.
A third of each.

The pain was immense.
It did not stop.
Not a throb, 

A Stab.
As if it were stinging me
Again and again.

For over an hour.

So now,
As this cold-weather fiend
Flies near,
I watch.

“What do you have to say?”
I ask.

I listen.
I observe.

All I can gather is…
It is in no hurry.

It finds a grease stain
On the patio chair arm,
And begins lapping it up
In the manner yellow jackets do,
Until the spot is no longer visible.

Cleaned its mess.
No
Cleaned a mess.
Not its own.

Like we as parents
So often do.

I swing my hair
Back and forth,
Hoping it will leave me alone,
Not lap any oil
From my body.

Memories rise 
Panic follows.

I feel it there,
On top of my head.

I swing my curls again,
Trying to send a message:
Go.
Elsewhere.

But it is here.
It was here before me.
And unless I smush it,
It will be here after me.

For now
Gone.
Or out of hearing reach.
Out of sight.

---

The soothing sounds of nature…
Not made by man.

Water falls onto rocks.
 Into a pond-like puddle
 Knee-deep, perhaps,
 Or at least it was last year.

From the top of the stairs
I can see the bottom.

This place, carved by nature
You can’t help but wonder
What was on the Divine’s mind
When it shaped it.

I want a place like this.
All to myself.

But would I share it?

Places like this deserve to be shared.

Yet I want to hoard it.
Keep it for myself.
Unfettered access
At all times.

And I suppose
With a tweak in scheduling
That’s always possible.

---

Cold water cascades
Slaps,
Claps,
Splashes,
Sings.

It continues its journey.

Boldly it goes
Down, winding, trailing,
Lulling.
Its journey never ends.

Can you see the wind?
No
But you see the evidence.

The leaves are moving.
As it blows by.

Sometimes it yells.
Sometimes it whispers.

Heaven’s altar
A living canvas.