Bone-colored telephone poles in the pink lamplight of morning. The chatter of nearby birds and no other sound on the roads or sidewalks. The end of the world or start of a weekend when everyone’s away. No one at the lake save the plop of two ducks dropping off the dock. All those birds calling out to each other across the gray. Like them I am here most days unseen, unheard. As it should be, on the shore. And the first blooms of spring say so much without making a sound.