5 AM

The road and the sky
are the same slate grey. Everywhere
grey light, as though the coming sun
has woken the world to its own
potential for vision. We feel
very distinct, tired but clear,
our eyes wide open.

On the bridge, a man with a dog
watches the river change colour.
His shoulders are square. His
dog lays by his feet, head on paws. They could
have been there all night, they
indicate with their relaxed tableau,
they could be there all day.

It is fragile, this grey clarity. Even
as I come back alone from
the airport, the streets have begun
to lose their quiet. At the turn onto Portage,
three cars wait with mine, and at the
Tim Horton's drive through, a tail
of commuters are ordering muffins,
starting the day.

At home, I surrender to my bed
again, although I do not sleep. The cat
comes to knead your pillow and I watch
the light brighten behind the curtains,
I can't seem to close my eyes, I imagine
your plane lifting into the sky, slipping
between the sun's fingers, a grey bird
chasing night all the way to Edmonton.