That Time of Day
sunlight splashes
eastern hills, spills blue
into gray, and the kitchen
frames snapshots: steaming
mugs and marmalade toast;
pencils fine-tuning homework;
papered German shepherds
and barn-bred tabbies, on kibble
watch. Hurried reminders
preface half-planted kisses,
a volley of slams and the crush
of sudden silence.
That time of day,
I open the French doors, step
lightly across thin ice veneer,
coffee fogging the sage
tinted air. I look to the mountain,
its ochre, olive and indigo
palette hushed against cerulean
sky. A hawk banks, bold
in early hunt and far
across the valley, traffic
stirs the morning. Somewhere,
I know, time clocks are punched
and bells empty playgrounds.
That time of day,
I bundle up in solitude,
borrow the wings
of the red-tail. Soar.
Ellen Hopkins
