September Fourth

As the sun bleeds through a haze a bird off somewhere sings. For how long, I ask. How long before it’s gone? A leaf falls from an oak as a branch sways. I’m waking to a quiet conversation and the chair I’m sitting on creaks. Neighbors moved out of the house two doors down before I had the chance to know them. Neighbors have always come and gone. Cut branches litter the front yard but in back lies a patch of flowers. I look at a birthday card sent late from someone I knew. It says he’s moved from a seven-room house to assisted living. I look at shadows on the wall and ask, Wasn’t it just yesterday when we went for long runs and told jokes on Sundays to make the miles pass and celebrate the life we had? But it’s Wednesday and I have bills to pay before going to work, where coworkers and I make small talk, but inside I know we are strangers, each filling a role. My ears ring as I look out the window. It’s a new day, I say, then sigh as the sun bleeds through a haze.