At eight twenty-four, the recycling truck pulls away. Bottles shake and clink. Heavy tires dip and rise in rain-filled potholes. Across the street, the parking lot of the Dunkin’ Donuts fills and empties, fills and empties as if on a time-lapse video. Life is movement. Life is bustle. Life is being recycled.

In a patch of sun, the dog whines because he’s bored. We play tug of war.  I can see across the backyard through the neighbor’s glass backdoor where an orange cat sleeps in a different patch of sun. The dog doesn’t chase the rope I throw. In the sun, again, he whines.  

Crouching down, the man in the chicken coop spreads hay over bald spots on the ground. When he’s done, he ties the wire gate shut. Shakes it. The midday sun does its midday sun thing. It shines and shines in crystalline air casting window shaped patches of warmth on living room floors.

There are sirens and fire trucks and then more sirens and fire trucks. The morning wind blows south and east. It smells of wires burning in the distance. For a minute, the rain falls sideways. I look for smoke, but the open-air gaps between the houses and trees are filled with clouds.

The morning air smells like rain in the distance. There’s a word for this first rain smell, petrichor. It smells like dust and earth and of things being stirred up. It smells like the anticipation of arrivals. It’s gray and rain is on the way. I can smell it in the air.

Ba-gack, one two three ba-gack, one two three four ba-gack. A backyard hen chatters and squawks. It’s warmer this morning – still cool. Every so often a truck rumbles by or my stomach gurgles. The coffee, no longer hot, leaves a pasty coating on my tongue. Time passes, the morning has a tempo.

This two-fifths moon is a valentine waning crescent. Slightly diminished and slowly vanishing, she reminds me that nothing is ever fully seen. Even in her hiding, she remains present. In her soft moon voice, which sounds a little like an ocean tide, she says, “but look at how the sky grows light.”

The bottom of the small glass tumbler I use for wine shines red and filmy and translucent under the tableside lamplight. Except for a blood-moon half-ring, the glass is empty and it’s getting late. Song lyrics play in my head with the urgency of fire or the rapid read absence of punctuation.