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