26 Forest Street, Cambridge, Mass.

Now in the new light I leave the too-bright kitchen lamp turned off, and scramble eggs by sound, and by whatever sight the gas burners and the dawn provide. I use both burners - one to warm my hands - since here the stove alone makes heat, and on the glass the frost has made a vignette of the world. The house is dark, asleep down to its stones. I take a plate to the old desk, near the light. In the neighbor's yard, five cats have gathered by the back porch steps. When an old woman comes with bowls, they rub against her legs, they fight; their warm breaths rise together in the narrow sun. I watch them move over the lawn, beyond my glass vignette, breaking the frost of the white grass.

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