Imagination sets in. Pretty soon I’m singin’ doo, doo, doo, lookin’ out my back door.~John Fogerty
An hour before dawn, a helicopter’s
clear symbol of inquiry–this is News,
not an austere government’s spy
machination, yet the chuntering counter-
beat creates unease, even
in my embraced-silence. Deep
indigo shrugs off thin appeals
searching spotlight can’t penetrate
the dark composing receptive pulsing.
Beyond the houselights, the lake
surely gleams whitely, all the snow
caught and held glistening–
I swear, I saw this yesterday–
now a mysterious difference in the way
light falls, received, reflected.
The noisy rotors recede.
My heart’s relieved.
I know nothing at all.
And still I watch all the windows,
tracking the way night clings
to the start of winter’s day,
alert for headlights carving
the space, bringing
my grandson at last.