This morning on the cusp of winter
In the living room, Gregorian monks chanted from the speaker on the table. Through the window, leafless branches wavered in a way that matched the deep, somber forlornness of the chanting—like dancers swaying in rhythm to music. I stood behind the screen door to the back deck, pressed my nose against the mesh, and breathed in the outside air—humid, chilled and damp, but wanting to be warm. The clouds overhead were an expansive layer of blueish-gray with splotches of white where the sun almost broke through. The few remaining leaves on the trees rustled as the wind blew. One bird chirped monotonously, while other birds sang sporadically. Squirrels darted along branches and nimbly hopped between trees, blending in against the bark because of their brown fur. An unseen plane flew audibly above the cloud layer. Trucks were louder than cars driving along the highway across the pond.