This Moment: 7:39 a.m. January 28, 2012

The small dog is curled into my back, his thin ribs pressing into me with each contented breath. His rhythmic breathing sparks an image of him traversing a river in a carved ivory boat. It is not the first time I have imagined ribs as a kind of boat. The trees outside my windows are dark images of their former selves. A few withered leaves hang from branches. It is a scene of desolation. The winter months are cruel. The old dog barks her latest protest. She is old and her bones conspire against her, even resting on her favorite pillow. I can see that both feeders are out of seeds. I filled them yesterday. The birds must be ravenous. A small dark bird is inside the bronze dish, claiming the last seeds. A dove mourns, it's sad dirge an accusation. The dove chases the small bird away and bobs a quick circle around the dish before it flies off. Although I can't see her, I hear her insistent treble- note call. A train is passing through town. If I sit still enough, I can feel the bed beneath me sway. The same white truck has passed the house three times now. I wonder what the driver keeps forgetting. Another train is heading down the tracks, it's voice a deep baritone. The eyes of both dogs are on me, waiting for me to throw back the covers, let them out and back in again. Waiting for me to feed them. The morning light is quickly becoming daylight, and although my mood dictates the day to be the kind I could spend under the covers, books and writing pad strewn about me, this Sunday will begin with an appointment for coffee and politics and conclude with a winter stew, and perhaps a mock sword fight or Lego fort building.