In winter
the sun still rises at seven
so you slip out the front door
lace your shoes
and take a helping
of a sliver slice of sky
gold and orange
beam
through morning clouds
as hopping birds
in breast-high grasses
try their best
to remind you

leave the lists behind
just for these
here
footfalls
forget about
replies
returns
and calculations
being taxed
and the definition
of a standard deduction

never mind
that your ten-year old
has a low-grade fever
within the degrees
that will wrinkle schedules
but only serious enough
to make him grumpy

all around you
dew reflects the spectrum
boughs
lilt in light
you know
it is all
sacred
then glance
at the time
you are walking with the clock today
trying to find the way
to remember
the bigger
in all these
mundane
details

at the
lookout
you see them
three
at sea
where they
breach
breathe
birth
and breed

be

blowholes indicate
their presence
then little hints
sparkling black
glints
of fins
or a back
wet in sunlight
fresh to air

these whales
they
live
suspended
oh so heavy
yet floating
free
of gravity

they carry
a tonnage
of non-issue
spend all day
in lumbering grace
living
in liquid
exhaling

every
so often
breaking
through
the surface