Out front, morning skids across the rain slick at its low angle – silver lining on the street. Squint, the doubt in blinders. The garbage goes to the curb, a thunder in a white sky, and at the top of the stairs, the door unlocks with a click. In your room, a fan’s hum muffles my sound on the linoleum in the kitchen, the suck of the refrigerator door, the clank of a glass against the counter and water pouring from the pitcher.
Out the back window, a sharp angle, the roof’s shadow on the proud arborvitae’s. They’re frosted up three-quarters their height and gold-tipped for the rest, as the sun has crested the house. There is home here, but day waits for no one, and here I am contained.
Now the pendulum sun is warm and at the bird bath. There is one taking its turn, and one cockeyed, impatient on the lip, with five more on the hill behind, drying and dried.