The moon is out. The ice is gone. Patches of white lounge on the wet meadow. Moonlit darkness at 6 a.m. Again from the porch these blue mornings I hear an eagle’s cries like God is out across the bay rubbing two mineral sheets together slowly, with great pressure. A single creature’s voice—or just the loudest one. Others speak with eyes: they watch— the frogs and beetles, sleepy bats, ones I can’t see. Their watching is their own stamp on the world. I cry at odd times—driving, or someone touches my shoulder or has a nice voice on the phone. I steel myself for the day.