before eight

The light steams in. 

I sip coffee Tom made me.

And listen for feet to hit the floor in the rooms above me.

I look out to see the shape of naked trees, showing off the curves of their limbs covered from view more than half the year.

Our big, one-eyed dog snores at my feet.

I hear the sound of trash trucks storming the neighborhood, and I run outside in bare feet and pajamas to pull the evidence of our twenty first century life to the edge of the road just in time.