Paintbrushes lean to one side of a mug like rockets ready to launch. Three dog toy squeakers huddle together. They might be plotting a heist. A mess of papers, lists, receipts, and mail tablecloth the other end of the dining room table.  The poinsettia stripped of most of its leaves still lives.

Thin clouds gauze a near-full moon. A halo implies more than I want it to imply – hanging there, looking straight ahead. Planes have made an etch-a-sketch of the sky. Early and on the move. Whether we want to or not, we leave a trail. We cast a glow. All of it disappears.

The hoodie hangs out like the shell of a paper boy. All sneakers and kicks and a lookin’ downward kinda coy. It’s makin’ its collection on the back of a dining chair. Or maybe it’s beggin’ to get out and go somewhere. The car’s in the drive, the hoodie’s stuck in park.

My neighbor walks his roof. He bends and picks debris – tosses it to the ground. Up and over the apex he disappears. He returns with white strands of tangled lights. He dangles his legs over the edge. His unsure foot feels for the top rung of a ladder that doesn’t quite reach.  

The planet is 4.54 billion years old. 4.54 billion years of history have been building to this. This morning, this day, this sun-kissed frosty blade of grass, and this bead of water rolling down the drain of the kitchen sink. An entrance billions of years waiting behind a curtain, stage left. Hello.   

A MASSIVE HAWK stands watch on top of a fence post. Her head swivels as we pass. The dog stops to pee. The hawk remains – unflinchingly close. In a dream last night, a hawk picked her way through a thatch wall just above where I slept. I had forgotten it until now.

My morning walk is interrupted by a series of questions. Is the width between the tines of the fork on a front loader garbage truck standardized? If so, how did this come to be? Was there a conference of haulers? Men in suits in Indianapolis arguing cost efficiencies, competition, collaborations, and consolidations?

The sky wants nothing to do with capitalism. The trees do not start their day in worry. The ground, frozen and obstinate, hardens itself. It strikes against forces that insist on pliability and compliance. Paint brushes stand tall in the coffee mug saying put us to use, but not for anything useful.  

A crow in a nearby pine sounds her crow alarm. Her one note metronome stretches through thin air and across empty yards. The school bus flashes yellow, then red. Elementary school children grip the silver rail and climb steps too big for tiny legs. The door folds shut. The crow has stopped.