|
Midnight, Fresh Air
After an absence the screech owls are in residence again
trilling against winter ping-ponging up and down the block. I slip my head out
the sliding glass door and breathe wheezy coughing lightly to the owls
hello, hello a human exhalation somewhat uncontrolled
a death rattle under other circumstances or in another time. This time
I have no beak. I take in the darkness like a mouse
going down a gullet inhaling the neighborhood as I do each day only slow:
the white mountain over the simple houses the dipping electrical wires
and smoke from chimneys. I exhale into the cold imagine Covid sweeping
sweeping across the sage and the lavender the garbage bins and Webers.
We are all infected behind our doors, aren’t we.
From my nose a drop falls like melting snow. How many viruses
on this paper alone? And then suddenly the squealing
brakes of a man in his hoodie as he wobbles down Spring Street on a bike
|