Observation - April 8th, 2023, Saturday

bright sun and birdsong

the April light filtered through dingy windows

 

engines humming on the street

 

humans walking dogs, barking

conversations punctuated by

the laughter of strangers

dallying on the curb

 

Observation - April 7th, 2023, Friday

a pale-gold line at the horizon

 

a blue-gray sky, soft

with brightening clouds

 

the bare maple, warming

in the spring sun

           

cracking green buds

in the morning

 

Sid Gateaux, Zen Syndicate Intergalactic, People’s History Project, The Skein of Days, Big Sugar Buddha, Observation, Reflection, April 7th

Observation - March 8th, 2023, Wednesday

the sky is dirty gray, like

street slush in sunlight

 

a fine wet snow falls in a mist

 

a single brown leaf clings to the maple

in front of my window

stubborn-little-thing

wavering

in the icy breeze

 

 

Observation - March 7th, 2023, Tuesday

 

a billowy field of blue and white

drifts above my head

 

the march sun is welcome

 

the walkways are wet

little streams of water flow

from ice packs

clinging to the shadows

 

rabbit tracks disappearing

in the melting snow

 

 

Observation - February 8th, 2023, Wednesday

the ambulance pulls up across the street

lights and sirens…beep…beep…beep

 

window shades glow with the tint of blue and red

a gurney clatters on the sidewalk

a carriage for the dead

 

Observation - February 7th, 2023, Tuesday

the sky is gray-bright with light

            filtered through thin cloud

 

it is pleasantly cold, with

a dampness to the air

 

traversing the cement-walk

shoeprints in the shining frost

 

 

Sid Gateaux, Zen Syndicate Intergalactic, People’s History Project, The Skein of Days, Big Sugar Buddha, Observation, Reflection, February 7th

Observation - January 8th, 2023, Sunday

the maple’s face is covered in snow

outside my window

bare branches like twisted-fingers

in the freezing cold

Observation - January 7th, 2023, Saturday

it is cold

the furnace went out

 

it is eighteen degrees outside in the city

there are poor people sleeping in tents

          beneath newspapers

 

the morning sun is pale in a silver sky

my fingers are stiff…but not from typing

 

the sound of the space-heater fills the room

pushing cold air through hot coils

the smell of electricity touches everything

 

the red kettle comes to boil

its sharp whistle pierces the

white blanket of noise that

clings to me

 

promising something warm to hold

hot coffee from the French press

pushing through the chilly gloom