This Moment: 8:12 A.M. December 31, 2011

A chorus of crows sing an ominous hymn this December morning. The sky is separated into thirds: ash-colored haze, pale blue, stark white cumulus. The snowstorms have yet to arrive. Like the sky, what I remember of my dream is divided into thirds: one part modern architecture, ancient Hittite, and torn strips of paper. The new year beckons. The small dog barks furiously at a jogger running past our house. The woman stops to readjust her navy and burgundy scarf. My dog is all animated growl and punctuated warning. The old dog refuses to join the game, her head rests on her crossed fore paws. The Mayan calendar predicts the end of the world at the close of this new year. Cars speed down the road to their destinations, tulips and winter wheat harbor under the cold earth, waiting for the sun to return, a plane cuts it's way through the air overhead, birds venture from their shelters to forage. The end of my world as I know it is coming. I hope for a braver new world.