A weekday morning at the beginning Of another year. Quite cold and quite Silent. A wind from southwest Is only felt and not heard, for I had Raked its leafy tongue away yesterday.

A pair of small birds, wrens or titmice, Streak by and vanish into the fog. I take my right palm out of the pocket Of my Levis and follow it as it vanishes. I look down and my feet have already vanished.

I suppose birth, that first thing we forget To remember, that amorphous beginning From a fluid in the sac, is like this. I also suppose so is death, that final Unexplainable border we step across, step into.