I take a walk along the river bank—

like usual, I want to say. How quickly

we adapt to what is new and claim it.

Likewise, back at home, my children

argue, laugh, and argue. They are

finishing their schoolwork, they

are doing anything but finishing

their schoolwork. This has been

the first full week of nothing but

gray wet, and I have to wear all

of my clothes to leave the flat.

Tonight the bare-branched trees

along the water raise their limbs

to monastery bells, while raindrops

tap against my jacket’s hood.

A friar in black is talking softly

to himself, or praying. Possibly

he’s on the phone. I press my feet

against the dampened pavement,

pause to listen to the speechless

city. When the sun sends out thin

reaches of rose, then—one

by one—the streetlights flicker on.