I sit in the morning and watch a flag perched over someone’s door, the colors whirling
around in the wind. There are three winter barren trees nearby, each a different variety,
each suited to the high suburban spread. They sit there without moving, their branches still,
impervious to whatever wind is teasing the flag. The sun is soft over the plains now,
the snow white with shadows. Driving in last night the sun was low and hard over the mountains
and it would catch me in between passing houses, shocking my sight, becoming everything
and burning bright through my eyes until I could hear crackling and smell the burning
bone of my skull. Cooking leaves with a magnifying glass, the small flag of flame a victory
once it finally appears, turning in the wind and spreading. My eyes are open now
and the sun has gone and the car pulls up to another version of home.

Tomorrow we will leave a flat stone on the thin sheet of ice covering the pond out back
and wait to see the sun heat it enough for it to drop through the ice,
leaving a perfect hole in its stead.