there's still a little wind out of the northwest.
The sky begins its change
from gray to pale yellow to vague blue,
curving before a sun without power.
You lie still for a long time, absorbent.
Somewhere there's an early chainsaw working,
and the breeze brings the smell of wood smoke.
Nearby in the woods there are crows stirring up a racket,
maybe harassing an owl, a winter sound.
Once in a while a truck passes on the side road.
More light, and the day's impending necessities
begin to shuffle beside the bed with their gentle coughs,
their dark suits, the glances at their timepieces.
You turn over and do your arithmetic.
Sixty nautical miles per degree, coming full circle
every twenty four hours...
At nine hundred knots you manage,
like a tattered islander in a typhoon,
to get in an arm and a leg over your wife,
and grip the covers.
No wonder.
~~~~~~~~~~
Douglas Logan
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