This Moment: January 16, 2011 8:14 A.M.

The trees to the west are muted tangles of raw umber with traces of burnt sienna. A lone crow is voicing its dissatisfaction with the morning in attenuated bursts: six complaints, silence, repeat. A thin crust of white covers the front lawn save for lopsided rings of green under the pine trees. In this light the cedar fence is the color of dried blood and begs the question, how is it the body turns traitor and plots to kill its king? Both dogs are padding circles across the hardwood. The old dog finally settles hard on the rug, her hip bumping against the front door. The young dog jumps on my bed and is on point hunting the cars that pass in front of his domain. The sky is a mixture of milk and ash. Storms are coming. Would that they would come and send the darkness scurrying to its corner.