Walking to Work on a Wednesday

It’s raining and I’m
walking to work
because it’s raining
and my helmet won’t fit over
the rose barrette Nicole made me
which goes with this turtleneck
(but not so much else)
and it’s not raining after all
and I see
my shadow—the merest hint—for the first time in days
and I notice the creek’s flow
is somehow reversed
but I can’t stop to see why
because as usual
I’m late for work

late, but not so late
as not to notice the red-wing’s concoree
or the kew of the flicker
or that the fat western gray squirrel
(not the kind the Brits accuse us
of having introduced there to wipe out
their red squirrels, I observe as I
see a starling overhead,
bane of bluebirds and purple martins
and just one of hundreds
of eurocontaminants here)
is getting ready to mate
but will probably
statistically get run over first
and I kick a lone
black walnut
to the left
and it leaves a trail
of walnut ink
which I’ve been writing in
all morning
and as I cross the road
my heart is singing
because how many people
get to walk to work
in the rain?