There is a bird pecking
on my roof

inconspicuously

muffled;

the house a resonator,

having me imagine a mechanic
alone in his workshop,
concentrated,
leaning over some delicate task

The day – which has a name
but is anonymous -
has reached 9 AM
and keeps tilting outwards

A bleak light filters across the land,
dispersed evenly,
the countryside gray and white,
the snow cover thin
as a gasp,
the air still, breathed;
everything observant

The house stands
on this moraine hill,
still, reserved,
since its construction
many decades ago,
but with the sense
that it could jump away
like a toad
at any moment;
prepared and ready
after all these years
of patience and restraint

and I listen to it
saying nothing,
albeit
with the definite word HOUSE
resounding in me
like an echo
in a quarry

There is a preparedness calmly abiding
as the gray and white of the day
slowly shifts nuance
and sifts through the air
and my mind,

the pencil in my hand
breaking up the now
across the page
into visible sentences
with just the right application
of pressure