I wake: only the wind

curls, the rise and fall

call of the whip bird

the white curtain billowed with light.

Everyone is sleeping.
The quiet house accepts my footfall

the way a winter forest accepts a solitary deer:

coarse wooden walls—

the colour of molasses—groan

as I pass, forgetting they are no longer

standing trees easing themselves

beneath weight of snow.

In the kitchen a kettle of water

catches heat, brews a thunderstorm—

I hold my breath

but no one rouses.
Back in bed I contemplate the small

grey bird pecking air on the white plate

left out overnight, the blue hills falling

away like a clear rain.