Obstacles

I walk out onto the porch.
The trees move gently in a breeze.
The sun is bright and warm.
A few puffy clouds contrast
bright white in the early morning sky.

A crow yells at me
from the denuded horse chestnut tree
(no buds yet, just the occasional
tenacious brown tattered leaf),
as I watch the blackberry runners
advance toward the house.

I go back inside --
the house is still asleep --
and measure coffee into the French press.
I set the kettle on the burner and slice
a thick wedge of bread and put it on
an old cracked saucerand drizzle it
with olive oil and dust it
with salt. The porch beckons
with its wooden chairs and table
in a warm spot of sun.

The kettle bubbles (at last) and I
pour the water, stirring gently,
careful not to clink the spoon.
Not wanting anyone else awake.
I put the lid on it.
The bread on the saucer, the notebook
beside it, the pen in the wire spiral,
and my empty cup wait with me
as I wait, and watch the crow drop
from the chestnut to the porch rail
to laugh at me. I push the plunger
and pour the coffee.

I tuck the notebook under my arm.
I grab the cup in one hand,
the saucer in the other, and
elbow the door open.

As I step out, a bank of gray
moves in to cover the sun,
a splatter of rain thuds
against the decking.
The light breeze has chilled.
I turn back.
Inside a child sobs.