We went shopping, joked 
about empty 
toilet paper shelves, 
laughed with the checkout lady 
when she carded us for wine. 

Wind blew wild and pines 
bent in the rain. 
Robins hopped in the yard, 
and, with the snow gone, 
hills looked bleak and bare. 

That night we tossed 
and woke, 
heard crashing sounds, 
then nothing 
but anxious dreams. 

In the morning, rain again.
Cars wouldn’t start,
Internet down.
Bear tracks in the mud
and dented garbage cans.
                        

We’re staying home 
for the duration, 
whatever that means, 

even as sunlight 
pours in through 
the glass door, 

and birds return 
to perch in the branches 
of river trees. 

We haven’t seen anyone 
for days, only the flicker 
of the TV 

when we finally get tired 
of reading – 
about the virus, 

about our money leaking away, 
about travelers 
stranded far from home. 

We are learning to be quiet, 
listening to our bodies 
as they breathe

easily so far,  
reading the signs, 
keeping the surfaces clean,

listening to each other 
as the furnace hums, 
paying close attention to our heat.
                        

Even as birds 
return, trees 

slowly leafing 
out.

Every day 
more stricken, 

and our 
Oedipus 

full of rage 
and self-praise.

Send for 
the prophet, 

slowly tease 
the story out.

In the end 
he will blind 

himself, 
and someday 

the plague 
will end 

as he stumbles 
toward Colonus to die.