Saturday in March

The morning
is a well-trained chambermaid,
silent. There is no
narration. The squirrel
monopolizes the birdfeeder.
His tail is unfocussed,
nature saying she
doesn't know. The grackle
waits on a branch above,
never impatient.
The flowers on the table
refract the filtered
sunlight from this angle.
There is no sense,
no story, except the
clatter of forks.