March Morning

Nothing but blackish skeletons in a dense fog
At 31°, as steam wafts south from my coffee mug,
Breathe vapor wafts south on my out breathe,
the earth must be moving,
Even the fog is moving south.

Neighborhood birds are still warm in their tree nests,
It is quiet enough, to listen for
The sound of the universe
As the earth moves
The under-rumble splitting space.