Walking past piles
of stale, old-news snow,
everything seems exact this morning.
composed of so-many back-lit bricks,
quake in Fahrenheit temperatures,
while precisely three rumpled finches
swoop in Euclidean circles, as if to advertise
the depth of mild morning air.
an iron bell clangs
a calculated reminder-
I, and those birds,
and those dark bricks,
and even that stale snow;
we aren't exactly news and weather;
not exactly lines or measures,
but all exactly this together:
here and hungry
for today's soft light.