Purple mist, sparrow, and finch. The grackle squawks like a rusty hinge, a metal pail swaying on a weathered nail. Hot coffee in a smooth, orange mug. We rise, we rise in the flannel cool. Behind the trees, the sun wakes from blush to blaze to glory rays heralded through thinning clouds.

The line of five short trees blooming white and green pokes above the roof-line like cotton swab tips. Out front, the maple buds turn plum. Dead branches hang bone brittle and barren. The rain stops, the gray sky brightens. I squint. Two robins race down the drive springtime splashing in new puddles.

In the sun-yolk dawn a wasp sleeps in the top, right corner of the sliding screen door that I’ve cracked an inch hoping she might find her way out. The light sparkles in my eye, blinds me. The day will warm. The wasp will wake. About everything else, I’m not so sure.

The neighbor’s lawn has gone wild with tiny purple flowers blooming among the clumps of grass. I don’t know how to name them. The choices are as rich and inviting as the small sparks of color: Dove’s-Foot Crane’s-Bill, Purple Dead Nettle, Creeping Charlie, Wild Violets, Carpet Bugleweed,  and the ever-foreboding Black Nightshade.

The robin perched on the branch puffs her red breast – begins to sing. She’s looking at me as we pass. For a moment, I think the song is mine. Who’s to say it isn’t? This is the selfishness of days. This world, this morning, this beam of light – all built for me.

How can this be the same sky as yesterday? Yesterday, there were three birds. Today there are none.  The color is different. The clouds are different. The very particles in the air are different. There’s still only one word for it. Which, in this wide beam of morning sun, feels wholly insufficient.  

The sun is bright. Birds flit about. From the dining room table, I’m thinking of the bed frame in the garage. Is the headboard made to look like two panels of wood? Is there beveling in the design? I’m picturing the storage cube, the moving cube, how the boxes stack and fit.  

Sunlight floods the dining room, makes the day look warmer than it is. The morning birds have been quiet. I’m the only narrator of this scene. I long to stretch the moment, to dawdle in reverie. Encircled, the I shoulds are lining up and closing in. This is how the day advances.

In the day’s final hour, I slouch towards slumber. By the bed, the body undoes its shackles, sets aside the weights of having moved through the upright world bound by gravity. Bones unkink with a deep exhale. The mind clears, awaiting dreams. The rest will be good. The rest will be good.