The sun is shyly rising. Now the horizon
is pink with the cobalt sky turning
a paler shade. As I sip tea, I notice
the cars and trucks on the distant
highway, going south, going north.
And I remember that piano riff I heard
last evening, in the background, at a gathering,
sipping wine. I noticed the holly
arrangement with silver and blue metallic
tiny ornaments in water, in a square vase.
My thoughts now ascend like the oboe and piano,
and float back from the highway, to the foreground,
to the pines and onto the maple trees beckoning,
empty of leaves, open. I linger on a branch,
bent over an empty street.