Ten.Seven Hundred & Seventy-Seven
The air is cool enough for open windows. I open the sliding door and listen to the sounds of morning.
Blueberry smoothies. The sputtering sounds of the coffee machine. The whir of the dishwasher. The slosh of the washing machine.
Cherry tomatoes, a slice of bacon. Out of chai. Just water.
The length of my shadow across the dirt and gravel. I look long.
Glass after glass after glass. Try not to spill.
Body language. I think of what the nurse said yesterday: People are weird.
Hillsides freckled with black cows. A large black crow perched upon the white wooden sign. And now the hills go from gold to green.
I save the podcast episode. This poem is too good.
He says that he gets it now.
I just hope the dog doesn’t bark again.