T.

Urban

7am. Standing on my balconey, cloud cover.
All the cars on Wilson Avenue rush north,
into the city. I can hear them, but they
are concealed by houses, trees, fences.
Bush-tits in the apple trees, with their
tiny high-pitched ee ee ee. About fifteen
of them, and when they take off they
look like grey butterflies, or a bouquet
fallen suddenly apart, petals lofted.
A squirrel in the maple tree, scuttering
through the canopy. I can see a neighbor
in the house behind me --his back door
is open -- spray a pan with cooking oil
and place it on a burner. I guess eggs.
He's a widower. I've never seen
a visitor to his house. A silent man with a long
horse-face and enormous glasses. Someone else
in another house is putting away dishes. Their
clink-and-clank punctuate this morning stillness.