Two shades of stubble here under my chin—
gray and brown— this local morning in the deep snow.
All around me are broken wires the squirrels roasted
themselves on in the overnight storm when everything’s
down and you realize how fragile the light is,
if you realize anything at all.
It’s impossible to draw a lesson from
every meager event—so little has happened this morning—
a sparrow passing, a car in the wrong lane—nothing
exceptional, just the movement of everyday traffic.
Even dressing lacks ritual.
You’re carrying out something unordinary
you know you have done before, you’re so well-behaved.
But this is different time, inborn, perhaps,
yet not instinctual like a sparrow pecking
a seed . . . but something you pass on to others and they
to you when you say good morning before coffee.