Blue

Blue snow on blue porch railing. Under a blue roof my neighbor stirs herself readying for an early shift. A blue pickup truck rolls down our blue street scattering a murder of blue crows. It is 5:59 on a December Sunday and the cold is visible. Other than the yellow postage stamps of a few early-riser windows, everything is bathed in the light of a high, round, blue moon. Soon shapes will emerge in their true colors – the white house, the gray road, the tan woodpile, the black crows. The day, with its serious realness will begin, but until it does we are here in the blue; you can close your eyes and be anywhere, doing anything.