Empty Sunday morning full of window light,
Puffy clouds over the mountains and lake,
The occasional squirrel steeplechasing
Around cabin, deck, and trees. Too far
From the road to hear any but the largest
Chip trucks grumble, and even then muffled.
Daughter off camping and dancing. No one,
For the moment, to trouble the small
Company of mind and body, self and soul.
So there we were, letting everything become
Everything else again. We conferred. We had
Solved nothing. The day divided on the rasp
Of a raven skimming the spruce. If you wait,
Eventually, one of these gently rolling waves
Will overwhelm you, said the buoy in the bay.
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