A quiet morning, with bird,
and the slow exhale

of the furnace. The fire
stutter starts, we all come

to life. Maybe today
they will find the new

feeder, or the popcorn
we scattered, grown soft

in the rain. The wild here
is more wild than before,

not easily enticed. Maybe
we will find what the coyotes

caught last night, unholy
screams, then, unnerving

silence. Milk clouds this tea,
a leaf sinks, then rises,

like a log rolls over
in brackish water,

like a minute turns,
and then the hour.