Perfection of a Friday

If a day can
be perfectly grey,
today is a perfectly,
sublimely grey day.

Sarah works
at the kitchen table
making jolly owls
of felt for our owlet,

while dozens of juncos,
dark-headed save one
snowy reverse of the rest,
gather and chatter

and scatter and re-gather
outside our windows
collecting every last seed
from the cracks of our flagstones,

and occasionally a fox circles,
running by on swift and wary
lightfoot patrol from the pines
as ravens and jays loudly monitor.

Baby Bird herself, ten weeks
old exactly this morning
has been napping for hours
after discovering her hands

can connect her eyes to her
felt toys, and Sarah and I talk,
about whatever we like,
say, the music on the web,

stories from school
and childhood and characters
we knew, articles we read
aloud to each other,

and even the sun, soft
behind mother-of-pearl
seems inclined to move slowly
and quietly, muffled, perfectly grey.