North, South, East, West, gray sky as far as this human sees. Stream, steadily flowing, not much wider than it was at last light; harmonizes with rain. A bird unidentified flies through the canopy, then two more smaller. No one sings. Deck shines like ice. It isn’t. Coffee dripped in the dark. I picked up a cup of tinted water. Started over.

     Slurping sounds arise from the ground trying to remove my shoes. A lone oak, last to turn yellow, brown leaves like someone crumpling paper. Stream gained height, escaped carved boundaries without a night light. I did not hear rain; windowsill dry this morning. Window remains open. With the precision of a baker, raindrops hang off rows of siding like cake decorations.

     Too warm for sleeping, awoke at 0200 gasping for breath. Can’t recall a participle of the dream I was dreaming. Sky silver. Trees bare. Great Blue Heron nest abandoned for winter. Tiny round-faced orange things, no stems, growing through gravel. The third blueberry bush dropped her yellowed dress; two still clothed in purple. Grass green. Evergreens. A few green ferns by frost forgotten. Moss on boulders. Yesterday, I noticed the stream moving, I noticed the duck swimming away before Zayne’s barking flew him.

     Heard not a sound through the open window last night, felt not a breeze, saw no light from the moon hanging in trees like a Halloween decoration when I went out with the three. A Raven called yesterday. A light breeze rained leaves under fish skeleton clouds placed on a blue sky. He sent pictures of Pileated Woodpeckers from the job site. Zayne rolled in the dirt. A backdrop of silver tinged with pink gives shape to trees. The three sleep. Fog. Dense. Ruger so close I can’t move my chair. 

     Like a screen print, black shapes itself into trees against silky silver sky. Grass spider clings to vinyl siding. Leaning against the gate, a package delivered after bedtime. Damp. Glancing through blinds, it could be a winter morning. It is fog, not snow sitting on branches. Nothing sounds. Not even Ruger his dark presence unknown in the unlit hall until I almost step on him, recovering balance without spilling a drop from the coffee in hand.

     Like a lost child a Blue Jay calls. No answer. Stream a clear mirror reflecting branches, reflecting overcast sky. Fine, tiny rain drops darken wooden deck. Black cart parked outside gate waits for a delivery we hope isn’t late. Yesterday I looked for pictures to take, uprooted brown feet of false fringed buckwheat climbing over boulders to higher ground, climbing toward the fenced-in-land where the three watched through chain links. Found no flowers blossoming, found leaves not on the ground. Pulled one tiny oak tree with tiny red leaves, laid it on a rock. Would it have survived in a pot?

     Sun cuts a swath halfway up tree trunks, captures tops of black raspberry bushes that spent summer growing leaves and two very plump berries. More sky than leaves through windows. No Jays. No Crows. No Ravens. No deer. No traffic. Quiet broken by three barking. Unknown catalyst. Frost. Moon and stars last night displayed like a promise kept.

     I fell asleep in October, awoke in November in a different time zone misreading the clock with its huge hands as 0615. Sky silvered, streaked with pink gone as quickly as that hour I overslept. A child born at exactly 0200 this morning has a birth certificate providing an extra hour of life. The mother would have appreciated one less hour of labor.

     Breezy, moon bright, starry starry night. Too many stars to count. Considering them noise, iPhone deleted stars to present a better photo. It does that with snowflakes too. A squirrel’s nest visible in bare branches. Ratio of leaves fallen to leaves on trees weighted toward the ground. Last evening color in the sky with some gold, some red leaves clinging.

     Rain bangs against fallen leaves in large drops; soaks three coats. I stand inside out of the dark, waiting with a gray and white striped beach towel. No moon. No stars. Yesterday a small bird atop the fence, couldn’t see it clearly through window screen. It sat. I watched. I went to remove clothes from the dryer, didn't see it leaving. The sky has not shown her silver light, nor birthed scribbles that assemble into branches. The three return one by one. I dry them. Zsolt’s coat like a sponge.

     I fell asleep in Alaska as she came face-to-face with the brother she hadn’t seen for eight years, the brother she needed to return with her to Wisconsin to save the family shipyard, the brother who didn’t have her brother’s face. Luna’s face is not as full this morning as branches reach to hold her. I reach for coffee, elbow stiff. Angels We Have Heard on High waits on the music stand to be mastered on the drum. In another state a friend prepares for surgery. The red truck gone. The three sleep.

     Ruger comes into my room as I pull on compression stockings, fleece leggings. Zayne says good morning from his bed. Zsolt is a protector, not a talker. Neither was my mother. I would bring her coffee without speaking. I wanted to watch her apply makeup, prepare for the day. I went to my room, listened to music, read until it was time for school. He isn’t a morning person either. The three do not want breakfast the moment they open their eyes. Neither do I.