The Crowing Hour

The radiator clicks and then goes cold,

letting the house settle into the draft.

On the nightstand, the peppermint tea has grown a skin,

an oily rainbow trapped in green ceramic.

Then the first one starts—

a jagged, grey sound in the oak

that hits the glass like a thrown pebble.

It isn't a song. It’s a demand.

I am still sitting in yesterday’s clothes,

watching the sky turn the color of a bruise,

while the yard fills with their sharp,

unforgiving business.