the morning of my / travel day i look / outside to see what the sky // portends for flying machines / a glimmer of sun / seems to say let's fly // even better luck / a pileated / woodpecker arrives as if // to say today you might die / but even so it's / a good day to fly

sixty chunks of ice / floating near the shore / one for each of my fifty-nine // years just now melting away / plus the sixtieth / one I'm standing on

faced with a gray sky / i stand a moment / at the dull tip of a point / sticking out in the morning / into the river's / melting and flowing

pre-raphaelite / pigments in the sky / shot out from the horizon // above a house and its trees / bruised blue electric / vermillion gold sun

continue turning / away from winter / from within the winter cold // hear the birds and see / the steam drift up the / branches of another day

the gulls have gathered / in Lac Sainte-Louis / as if occupying seats // in the auditorium / of early morning / for the sunrise show // they've paid their tickets / and now sit and watch / the sun break the horizon // its reflection resembling / a golden comet / rising from the depths // and who then am i / the unpaid usher / of the solemn occasion // or the human element // mostly unheeded / by both sun and bird // a strange intrusion / at the glazed margin / peninsula of being // observing but still asleep / only opening / one eye a little

* alternate photo and poem for paid subscribers everyone

Driving down the street as Monday dawned