A pale grey above,
darker to the west, a dreariness that doesn't run down the window yet, temperature in the 50s, lilacs showing color. Today puts its pants on one leg at a time; common as a penny this sensation of morning.
Wind ruffles the surface of the pond - the half that's open, free from the sludge of algae. Thicker than ripples, the wind makes the water, not as thick as waves.
The smell of manure is on the morning air - not strong, but enough for the farm boy to catch sense of it.
Three blackbirds on a Fairwater lawn, strutting like crows, black against the green urgency of grass.
Even when I'm sad I feel as if I hold the world cupped in my hand like a breast, like a beating heart, like a small bird trembling.
Above East Fond du Lac Street in Ripon, a stretch of crow, wide and black, heads for some back forty in the country where it can settle into some disgusting breakfast.