6:42 a.m. Smack dab
in the middle of July,
I hear a distant rooster.
Ants crawl up my legs,
as I sit in the Adirondack
chair, writing,
washer and dryer running.
I’ve tidied already,
made the bed,
plucked dead stems
from the wild onion.
This innocent morning
belies what is to come,
as is always the case
with beginnings.