At the moment

The sky is gray in the weak early morning sun. I look out the window at the branches of the maple tree heavy with buds. The ash on the other side of the drive is as dead as it was last spring. There will be no Lazarus-type recovery, despite my wife's fervent belief. It needs to be cut and chopped and fed to Fargo's wood chipper.  The garbage truck is banging the bins out by the curb. It's mechanical arm making the hydraulic groan our great grandchildren will recognize as the battle cry of their robot overlords. My coffee mug is almost empty, the contents just above lukewarm in temperature. The morning house is quiet without the sounds of my wife's soft melodious voice or the cooing and cries of the baby. There is no TV or radio, just the soft tap of my fingertip on the iPad keyboard. Tiny birds sing and flit in the tree branches. I don't think they are sparrows, they seem smaller. Bird watching is not my hobby. I don't know, nor do I really care, what breed they claim at the annual bird convention. Patches of yesterday's snow lurk in the flowerbeds. The green of new grass pokes gingerly through the brown blades of last years distant lawn. My disgust and disdain for our politicians and bureaucrats remains high. I fart in the general direction of Washington five times a day whenever I imagine an unheard muezzin calls the Muslim faithful to prayer. We all express ourselves in our own way.