After Emily Dickinson

She stares out the window,
vacant street,
upturned garbage can,
squirrel searching for breakfast.

The silence of the approaching storm
encircles her,
chains tightening
with each breath.

A flock of black birds
squawks madly,
flying north
in sharp formation.

She takes her morning pill,
washes it down with weak tea,
sees a man rushing a stroller toward the corner,
the baby shaking its fist at the sky.