Every morning, as soon as I leave my bed,
I open the drapes of the studio window
as if I’m pulling back the curtains on a play’s
opening scene. Today, the view surprises me
with snow-powdered leaves and logs
on the slope of the western hill. A flurry
of flakes dashes by. I don’t take it as an omen.
It’s what it is and I celebrate it for that
and consider it a gift, regardless of
its mood. Thus it begins, I say to myself,
feeling blessed that I am seeing it,
and that this is what I see. And I turn
and go about my day. But this morning,
before my eyes leave the scene,
a buck emerges from the upper woods
and walks down the hill, his rack held high,
stopping before he gets to the road
to listen and to watch. He waits.
An oil truck passes. Then he walks across
the road and bounds down to the field
where apple trees and a sleeping doe wait.
Thus it begins, I think to myself.
I notice that I am smiling.