It is ten degrees this morning when I take Bonnie out. She steps gingerly into the frosty grass and quickly figures out how to be quick. The sky is an ocean of light-tipped waves and I see Venus pointing up to Saturn in a bed of milky gauze. These bits of shine gathered in one place become my prayer.
The drive to work is shrouded. I count headlights, listen to praise. The horizon takes on a dusty hue and I pass over a river of glass. Just before Oakwood road, the birds flock madly over skeletal trees, their bodies imprinted against the approaching dawn. I shift lanes.
The parking lot is silent and I walk the longest block to the hospital, insulated—gloves and toboggan and thick winter coat. Only one other on the cold sidewalk. She doesn’t look at me.
God is here, I want to tell her. God is here.
I pour my cup into his hands.
The day begins.