The morning was cool and still
on the dark edge of winter.
Rows of birds on power lines, waiting.

the sun tried sunny went back to grey.
Not worth the effort
resigned, tired, defeated.

The afternoon now, premature dusk
woodsmoke and rose haze in the Western sky
streetlights buzzing to life as earth

The day heavy, not moving in currents, the humidity dense but not cold enough to wet my face. And the waters move, gunmetal grey light under shadows. I mostly feel dirty, more than anything else. I don't feel relief or emptiness or any of the things I would have expected. Just grey through my pores from stale smoke and stagnant air.

I wake up tired and wend my way through daily motions, talking functioning moving. Down by the Hudson, the seagulls are attacking innocent tourists and I leave my sandwich on the bench for the fucking birds. 'Feed the birds, stuffy old nags'. For some reason this impromptu rhyme strikes me as inordinately funny and I grin like a fool as the sky tries sunny and turns back to grey.

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