By Max Orr

In the morning, I cut through
the alley on the way to buy flour.
Piled with white, everything whispers,

save the English Sparrows, uproarious
and violent in the naked and tangled
trees. They never stop moving.

Later, I will borrow their elaborate language
to let away whatever thousand tiny urges
I can. I wonder if it is ok

to spend a whole Saturday waiting
for dough to rise. Past the birds,
a quiet solemnity weighs

down the lids of dumpsters, the hoods
of cars, my boots. Above the uneven rhythm
of feet over hidden Earth, black bark

is firm in its declaration: it is the cold
which gives us permission
to slow down. Slow down.

In the evening, I cut through crust. A world
of small caves lets go of its own
many edges. They spring toward the sky.

Max Orr is an English teacher living in Columbus, Ohio. He turns to literature and the natural world to find stillness and wonder. His work appears or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, Modern Poetry Quarterly Review, and Pudding Magazine.