Chanson

Light, this morning,

Is brushing over the city

Weaving a fiber-like smear into the room.

Out there, cars, trucks, dogs..

Make needles of sound.

Motorcycles, blunt and obnoxious,
Hibernate in December garages
Draped like the dead.

Winter's air is thick enough

To have the gods rise to their feet.

Such is the light this morning.