Maureen Brady Johnson
The light was different this morning,
like a sigh of relief between spring storms.
The sunrise, almost bronze against the sky.
There were three of us
witnessing the light...
A woman, whose name I do not know, and her dog.
And me, pushing the garbage cans out for collection
“Good Morning,” I say.
“Good Morning,” she returns.
We continue, nameless to each other
nameless to her dog
the three of us
complicit in rescuing the beauty of a morning
studded with birdsong.
We remained silent, our breath taken away by the light.
I wanted to ask her
and her dog
to dance in the dew, catching the light,
on the uncut grass.
But I did not know her name.