Maybe, on another morning

I'm sitting in the open doorway of a garden shed that's connected to the basement. The floor is speckled with spilled bird seed. Nearby a withered plant waits quietly for a proper burial. Sanitarium green paint peels in long strips from the bottom of the porch. Overgrown weeds crack old wood. On another morning, I might imagine those weeds holding together, not splitting, those old pieces of wood. And maybe, on another morning, I'd enjoy watching the clouds move through the sky instead of feeling disappointed that they aren't bringing one wailing motherfucker of a storm to lay us out flat on the valley floor, begging for mercy.

I look down at yesterday's coffee spills on my shirt. My teeth hurt wondering when I last brushed them. A gunshot booms through the valley. I imagine a doe exhaling her last breath and the quick flash of salmon backs fighting a current. A bear with its leg caught in a trap, blind with rage. More coffee dribbles down the front of my shirt. I'm back in the shed again, hearing but not seeing, cars on the street, furnace starting its cycle, birds bickering on the lawn. Clouds slide across the sky. Where are they off to in such a hurry?