This Moment: 6:14 A.M. November 19, 2011

The dogs and I are wrapped in the dark cocoon of early morning. My dreams have vanished. Their only reminder is the dull ache in my jaw from clenching through the night. I am filled with a juxtaposition of calm and anger and try to ferret the dream's content. I wonder about the owl in the willow and the hawk in the honey locust tree, their small heads tucked into the down of their breast, both secreted in the tangle of branches weathering the first real storm of the season. The owl's foraging is completed for the evening, but moments from now, the hawk will pounce on the slight scurrying under the snow and bring it's find to the tree and tear the small body apart. The world outside my window slowly emerges in a white shroud. Plants that have survived the first frosts, are surely dead. I will pull their limp bodies from the terra-cotta pots later today. The small dog is coiled into a tight knot next to me licking his left fore paw. The big dog readjusts her old bones on her pillow. I hear my husband cough in the kitchen. The cat is yowling, almost wailing a dirge, from the living room. She desists, bored with her own suffering, and we are offered a respite from her incessant complaints. A train racing down the track is the only sound. Now snoring from the living room. I imagine my husband sitting on the living room couch wrapped in the velvet patchwork throw, his coffee beside him, entering the territory of dreams. I hear a train coming, it's voice ushering the day and it's promises. For a fleeting moment, I think to run to the closet, grab my coat, boots, hat, and race to it. I want to tell the train to wait for me. Tell the train I am willing to go as far as it will take me.