Houses half in shadow, half in rising sun,

and, nearby, a flag whipping ocean breeze.

A man with headphones on his morning run.

Car wheels backing over gravel. These,

and a crow cawing from a stunted pine,

a gull on an updraft, the hiss of the sea.

I’ve woken again to a porch not mine,

free from toil, free from calamity.

These, and a thousand other sufferings.

I sit at the table and fill my bowl.

Seabirds cackle viciously. The wind rings

a counterweight against a metal pole.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 33 Number 6, on page 25
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