 |
| Sort of the color of birches |
Rising with notes
from the tangle of night
to a dull meandering snow (he yawns)
and little support,
he listens with coffee for the voice
of his muse or his ghost or the wind off the hill.
The clouds are (sort of) the color of birches.
The sky is as blue as (he shrugs) the sky.
And there! The scuttle of claws in the wall—
mice in their itchy pink kingdom.
He reads to the dog with her chin on her paws.
At the word walk, her tail slaps the floor.
Encouraged, logged in, he begins:
Rising with notes from the tangle of night...
