early morning

a staggered light
appears,
not pink, not orange
but a murky purple bruise,
a coat of early dew
frosted
along the curves
of cars, chimneyed
angled roofs.
the noteless lines
of wires,
holding only
birds, not music,
stretch
haphazardly along
the streets. dogs bark
at the end
of chains.
doors open
for papers and milk,
to stick a finger in the wind.
everything is exactly as
it was when you
were children, not
much has changed, not
even you
in your plaid cuffed
jeans, mittens.