January Dawn Watch

You roll over the edge of an eyelid, measuring your body through a window. Once you fit, you go outside of yourself where the sky is rising. A part of you is stirring coffee. Another part is beside the windowpane glancing edgeways into your tongue. Crows crash out of bare branches. The wind is in from lost town. You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches, even though the trees you are watching are made of blood-filled dendrites pushing through thoughts. Robins flush out snow drifts, leaping like tigers. You shake mist out of your shoes, follow claw marks. You can see clouds swimming in the dim fathoms, where geese fish for meadow grass. Roads are passable. Wind-whales plow through narrowing perspectives, pushing insomnia ahead of a dark sleep. Freezing rain wrings eyes into hands that hide inside closed fists. Because of the cold, there are warm regions of you that will not surface today. Dawn hovers in-between night and day. For a long moment gray ghosts pluck the ground like scavenging gulls.