Rachael Mead #7, Winter morning in Basket Range

Winter morning in Basket Range

The last of the night is still pressed against the windows.

Slowly, what had been birdsong becomes a set of distances

so I let the dogs out and pour a jug of water

over the cheap panes of ice on Andrew’s windscreen,

clouding the thick pewter air with my caffeinated breath.

I’m cold and stamping, pudged like a sausage with layers

that will feel too warm by noon. I clip the dogs to the leads

and thumping their hollow sides while crooning songs

of nicknames we scuff through the light silvered with fog

to the tiny post office that opens for just one hour a day. 

The dogs lap at their puddled reflections while I chat to Brian

then we turn for home, toes curled over the brink of the day.

As the pale sun climbs over the ridge, frosted windows gleam

and the road sleeps in the quiet spaces between the trees.

The day opens - all the beautiful possibilities blistering inside me.