Golden Hour
Late afternoon? Early evening?
whichever, the spring sun slants his
fierce rays across the scarred table
where I gently press pie crust into glass plates,
strew cheese, glop ham/spinach/onion, and
crack egg after egg after golden yolked egg
for quiche. While outside announcing
day’s demise the cheerful robin
sings his territorial song and the insistent
sparrows chirp chirp chirp insecurely to each other
From the other room children rumble
and pages turn but for now I
have my territory to myself.
