Dark silhouettes of pine, valleys fanned out
as open-sided buses crest the ridge at dawn.
Frost-trails of breath lingering on the coldest
morning of the month so far. Tin shanties hold
their chilled sides close along the hills.
In one, a naked lightbulb: its tungsten
yellow glow above a kitchen sink,
where a grandmother is heating coffee
and putting the eggs in it to boil.
You glimpse her in the window as the bus
rolls by— lit end of her cigar
poised in her mouth, eyes scanning
the day for what warmth it will bring.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.