Tie-dye swirls in glassy blue color the horizon. Higher up, the faintest hints of white suggest the apparition of clouds, ghosts that can’t fully materialize. The day is bright. It’s almost spring. The birds know it. I don’t remember when or where I learned the name for crocuses, but there they are.

The midday crash wasn’t a crash. BMW. Maybe a curb. I could hear the skid, see the smoke and spinout. Minutes later, the car rolls clanking, slow, undetected into a parking lot. Wheel bent in, rear bumper hangs. No other cars involved. Two men exit, pace, eventually leave. Nobody called it in.

Blackbirds rise against a tormented sky – phantoms fleeing a lightless dawn. The streets are slick and, in some spots, dusty with snow. A March lion lets out a halfhearted roar as if to say, “I will not go quietly.” I have the warmth of the house, the fluorescent glow of chandelier lights.

Dive back down. Into sleep, into dreams, into winter morning darkness. I’m disoriented in time, not quite unstuck. A small plane unzips the sky as it passes. The coffee pot ticks in spits and spurts like an irregular watch falling behind. I should get a move on. Get a move on. Get.

Cords snake across the floor. Electricity flows. It’s night and there are lights on everywhere: the stereo, the phone, the laptop, the lamp. Everything is plugged in. We’re plugged in and awake. The blue lights, the screen lights, the soft yellow incandescence of night. Everything is awake and it is dark outside.

Five minutes. I wash and rinse the dishes: a frying pan, a plate, a bacon crisping dish, a spatula, the dog’s water dish. Five minutes. The dog eats an entire bully stick. He’s never eaten one whole before. Usually just chews them. He’s not supposed to eat them whole. Now, I wait.