The Edges of Things

A squirrel nibbles the tops of the fence boards in the back yard.
The broken tooth smile he leaves greets me when I come home from work.

A baby arrives early.
The town opens a space by the river saying recycling day is Thursday.

Above the clouds a pair of geese crosses the moon disc at night
asking permission if others may follow.

Hats line up the people beneath them
in the city square listening to a quartet playing Mozart.

I follow these things as a rough carpenter banging boards
to make a crate to hold the notes

rolling off the concert stage
in lavender bunches.

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