I’m used to the noise of a water pump,
refrigerator, and furnace. They speak
to me intermittently. Nothing more.
Once, however, a squawking bird got in,
and that day will go down as one during
which something talked to me besides four walls
and furniture. I caught the bird in a soft towel,
unlocked the door, and let it sing again
to surrounding sky. It would seem easy
to adapt, but I believe more in
the presence of people than in the sobering
seclusion of solitude. Some days my whole life
is an unmoving painting, a static scene
wherein I am there. Nothing more. Sometimes
I turn on a spigot to hear water splash
into the sink or open and shut a door to catch
the unmistakable squeak of a hinge in need
of oil. I lower my head against snow
and carry in logs for the fireplace. Blue flames
rise from kindling, pour over the logs
like an embrace of hands. I look behind me.
Was I expecting company, or is it the taunt
of nothing more than shadows?