Blushing peach and rose, the bright-eyed sky reminds me of oversized, mid-80s, women’s sunglasses – white zinfandel chilling in the fridge. Clear crisp and translucent cool, the sparkling light graces the tops of morning trees warming red and gold. These are the colors I’ve been missing, the air I’ve longed to breath.

The variegated leaves of the dumb cane annoy me. The only way to describe their mottled greens and whites and shades of in between is through words like mottled or variegated. Bought as an accent during a remodel, it always seems thirsty or dying. A reminder – we’re all thirsty and dying.

A string of days absent of color tests the limits of gratitude. Muffled light still counts as light: another dawn in the making. These are the flat days usually reserved for November and its cemetery rains.  Small breaks in the clouds show blue behind a paraffin sky. Change is on the way.

The soggy gravel road squishes underfoot where the pine needles clump. Grooves and dips have widened into potholes. The puddles reflect October grays. The problem to be mulled and maybe, one day, solved… Where to dump and how to spread the stone? Already, my back hurts. I can taste the chalky dust.

The batting from the stuffed chicken dog toy isn’t much different from the batting from the stuffed monkey dog toy – which is to say that maybe we’re all just indiscernible stuffing inside. Tear us apart and pull out the squeaker and we, too, might collapse on the floor deflated, gaping with holes.

It’s hard to imagine that the sun, hidden somewhere, can also cast this veil of gray light which doesn’t seem like light at all. There are no bright spots in the sky, no singular points of focus – a light without direction or warmth. Willow branches dangle and sway in a windy rain.

The morning rain beads and pools on the newly sealed deck. Drops hang from the table edge reflecting the silver light of an overcast sky. In my head, a song plays. I switch up the lyrics to make them about sitting, waiting, and watching the rain. Have patience, everything will be alright.

The jagged line of butter rises like bas relief sculpture on the knife – yellowing whitecaps approaching a flat and silvery shore. The fork waits like an open hand begging – its small claw tines looking for something to scoop, poke, or shovel – anticipating a gaping mouth not knowing the work is done.

One crow soars away, its five-beat caw receding.  The sun is lower on the horizon compared to a month ago. This is us turning away from the light. A second crow flies away, flapping towards white clouds in the blue distance. A pencil drawing of birds – two humps, curvy v, incomplete m.

The neighbor carrying a baseball bat and walking her elderly dog stops across the street from us. “Did you hear about Bernie?” I don’t know Bernie. The white terrier – Justin’s dog… ahhh, Bernie.  A pit bull on Suburban broke loose and killed him. I have a pit bull. I understand the looks.

With the windows and doors closed and the morning dark, nothing grabs me: no birds, no wind, no swirl of cloud or peek-a-boo light. With no focus, the words stay hidden – difficult to extract. Twenty-four, then thirty-four, I’m tugging and pulling them to fifty-two. Clementines, two bags of chips, blue ceramic bowl.