Working Day

How near nothing something comes. It is saliva laced on lips, a litany of winter trees holding the sky in. We rise automatically, fondle the heat on, hear our newspaper words fill the walls like stale air as we axe frost from the windshield of moon warming up in the driveway. Outside, the wind rears up on hind legs and screams. But there is nothing, no scratches, no blood, no dried spit of hieroglyhics languaging the glass, no ancient stories to base our deaths on, to tell the grand kids when they're too old to care, too young to see between the stars.