The sky was a color that undid itself;

silly putty that covered space over time,

moving south east

from the mountains.

 

The meadowlark, the cackling goose;

the red winged blackbird filled the air with sound

and without cacophony as many human voices sometimes mean.

A sonata, rather—

their ensemble interrupted only by the snap of mallard wings

rubberbanding from the cattail grass.

 

The titan nest of a bald eagle swayed in an outlying tree

as the sky had not yet darkened into what it would be.

 

That night the train rumbled to the south of us

sounding thunder into the shrinking prairie,

 

I drew the curtains back to see if the forecast was true;

 

but somehow looked past the thick, falling snow

and into the tree that kept changing faces in the moving light.

 

Your words were so soft and few from your stilled, unfolded form,

I pulled them against me like a sheet that gets tangled when you keep turning in your sleep.

 

I thought I felt the earth shake then—

from the train or from something else.                                                                                                                        

 

and counted its thunder and the peaceful calm that followed,

among some of my greatest blessings.

 

 

 

All around us,

everyone’s moving towards something;

the hurried lunch is made hurried,

the leftover breakfast softens under sink water for a day;

the laundry is piled, unfolded—

they rush out the door

running to beat the bell.

The dogs with their wide, brown, roaming eyes

lay in beds looking around big, silent houses.

 

Meanwhile,

I am sitting here,

depositing Cheerios into my mouth,

the underfoot dog is waiting for something to drop.

One child at school, one too young, and the other home sick.

We are watching the shadows of the sun move around the room and ignite the dust.

I take my daughter’s temperature,

her watery eyes and reddened cheeks lean into my shoulder.

My youngest and I find the corners of a puzzle whose pieces come together easily

on a day like today.

 

Later, I will help my sick child outside to the hammock

and let the sun do the work of her tired body for a bit.

We will read and rest and squint into the sky.

 

But for now,

I let the Cheerios fall for the dog—

the little circles hitting the kitchen floor softly,

meaning everything.