This Moment - 8:09 A.M.

Dark green shadows contrast against light green patches of the mowed lawn. It is quiet still this morning. The world is just waking up and rubbing the sleep out of its eyes. A plane rumbles overhead, breaking the silence. My dog's nails click on the hardwood floor and he is huffing his scent into the room. The Quaking Oaks' leaves provide contrast against the red cedar fence. I can see that there is a slight breeze, but other than that, the trees are still and unmoving. A bald man lumbers like a miniature Paul Bunyon up the sidewalk, the morning paper in his left hand. And now a steady flow of cars up and down the street. Dandelions glut the unmowed lawn of the house next door. The sight of their fluffy white heads provoke the thought, there is enough unhappiness for all. Strange, to start the day with a glass half full. Three starlings harrow the sky with their urgent cries. A dun-colored bird is hopping from branch to branch of the groomed pine tree, then dissapears as if the tree were a hungry mouth. The bird has not emerged these last few moments of unblinking observation. Perhaps it is nestled against the tree's trunk. Perhaps it slipped out through the back branches. It did not signal its leave. A door opens somewhere in the house, footsteps upstairs, and a rush of water in the sink. A dove lights onto a branch and rolls its body against the prickly leaves, like a dog making its bed to lie down. I am irritated a magpie interrupts this ritual, but the dove remains in the glove of the branches, and begins cooing its sorrowful dirge.