good morning

Bear Jaw

Mornings I stand at this window

sipping dawn black, coffee fogging

the image of the Blessed Virgin

bestowing grace, softening the first hard

edges of the day, blurring the dog out

combing the yard for clues to a winter

gone missing, hounding a cold case or

just going through the motions mornings

when I palm the bear jaw we found

after all night rain on Big Bay de Noc,

half smile plucked from the window sill

in half-light reliving the day, your red boots,

smashing mirrors of standing water, still

finding your feet and the bear jaw, an ivory

stave working free of old rail bed torte,

mornings mottled gray like the time

we paid a visit to Jim Rooks, bear jaw

clutched in your hand, solitary canine

rattling in the socket, huddled molars,

the cross-section saw cut smooth beneath

his probing finger, clues in a mystery,

one of our first, elevated by time to talisman

that still hums in my hand mornings,

alone by this window, dawn working

free of the clutching fingers of night.