This Moment: 8:32 A.M. February 11,2012

I am refusing to face the morning. A dog from across the street is barking. My dogs join the conversation. The sky is filled with brisk morning light. Cars stream up and down the road. The day is here. I am wrapped in my comforter, sitting cross-legged on top of the bed. The small dog is stretched over my ankles and turns to look at me every few moments to see if I'm going to get up and give him a treat or take him for a morning walk. I can feel his muscles shift with my every movement. He is always ready to leap. The old dog is in the living room. She waits now until she has to move, unwilling to expend the energy on possibility. A plane passes noisily overhead. Now a train announces it's entry. Every vehicle that passes appears to be loaded down or attached to a trailer filled with branches as if it were spring rather than winter. The seasons are confused. The noise of the day is building. The birds are silent. Perhaps they too are refusing to leave their nests. The noise of the past week has been relentless and filled with tales from Grimm. Finally, a crow caws a clipped syllable directive and then is silent again. The small dog jumps from the bed and pads into the living room.