five, daffodils, old

Numbers give sustenance to what is being enumerated. Rhymes, ballads and myths are supported by numbers that reinforce their message: three blind mice, twa corbies, four and twenty blackbirds, four gospels, 1001 nights. I look up to see the setting sun guild  the branches of a tree, and, in the tree, five starlings. No more, no less.
Five starlings sat in a tree.
For you and me to see.
Five starlings  took to the air
And now they flown
Who knows where?


Daffodils are pushing up their buds in the Grove, but remain only a few centimeters above the ground.  On the table beside our front door, a bunch of daffodils, grown under glass and  bought, still in bud, at the farmers' market on Saturday, opens today in its vase,  a brazen symbol  of triumph.

In the doctor's waiting room, a  passing nurse greets an old man.  How are you?  With the help of his stick, he stands up to acknowledge her: "Not so bad," he says, "for an old un."