The shadow of the roof ridge opposite’s
a wan fin on asphalt shingles. Watery

sun spills over the southern mountains
and gutters down the streets of the valley.

The little snow that fell almost fast
as rain melts. The clouds that shoal and

loiter, unwilling to disperse, lured by
the smell of silty coffee, and the metal

chimney pipes across the way flash bright
on a backdrop aswim with thin branches.

The sun is unexpected, and unwelcome.
But the emphasis and glint it’s placed

on other things, via itself, solipsistically,
is irresistible. I squint out the window

at the changing scale of silveriness.
This town was a lake once. Now it’s a fish.