Stones

Mornings now open wide and vacant. I wake
before dawn. My bed is filled with pillows
and books. I walk the dog. I drink my coffee. 
I sit here,

at the oak table, writing letters I will never send. 
Every morning, dozens of small, pale moths
are caught in the door screen. The river has fallen
back into

itself. You could see, if you were here, stones
at its bottom, six feet out from the bank. Slow
water,  no longer dangerous. We have new lights
in the park,

along the gravel paths. They are tall, fluted
towers with white glass globes. They are
graceful, civilized. Yesterday I saw two sun-
burnt men

paddling a red canoe. Cowboy hat; baseball
cap. Boys in black inner tubes. Swallows flash
in the sky above me. Sun drips quietly down
through leaves. Weeks

of heat. I drink quarts of water and sweat it out,
it runs down my back, my face, like rain. A hawk
turns above the river. I stop to watch. It circles
down

to look at me. I stand on the bank, watching stones
in the riverbed. I think, it would be possible
to resent the people who love me, who require me
to live.