The geese are gathering in cyrillic honks nudging each other to the next horizon.

The one small cloud I can see makes the sky far wider than overcast yesterday’s small world.

The frost has touched the vine leaving it freckled and dawn comes later and later.

The sunrise’s breath is invisible among the splayed whiskers of daybreak.

The sun is mousing, crouched quiet and low in the grass.

I am not unmoved; I change my sunning spots according to where and when the sun now lands.

The chairs, freshly dehaired, are ready again for my rounds of visitations. Soon it will be time to steo over the hairless talls and see if I can prod them away to this freshly killed day, the preyed-on, prayerful dawn waiting to be toyed with.