I will make eggs in the morning, not too
early. Coffee in the cold of the back
room, windows on the feeders, half empty,
epicenter of an explosion of
small birds on film run forward and backward,
a mad scramble of egg-layers. Iron
skillet, butter, crack and whisk, yes to toast.
Salt, pepper in shakers, simple gifts, hymns
to a humble meal. Yet, the spice rack brims
with dormant fiery powders waiting
for a chance to ignite underneath our
mothballed rocket of a morning. Crushed red
pepper, curry, cayenne, chilis bristle.
Alas, cumin, just a pinch, my hand, stayed,
a cook wise to incendiary meals.