Morning, after the election

Dawn silvers the patio
The trees, still there
The grass, still there
Quiet proclamations of presence
Accepting and conceding themselves
A new coolness in the air
(Fall came late this year)
And I will still need to rake the leaves on the patio
To fold the laundry piled on the wicker table
To bear witness to the little bald man
Who always drives away at 8 a.m.
The birds still singing
The dogs still barking
Still that surprising peace of everything
Each in its own time, its own sweet time

 

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