Such things happened today 

as would make ten good poems. 

I choose not to tell a one. 

Instead, know this day is warm, 

the sun is bright, high cirrus

clouds foretell a change. 

That my hands appear unsullied 

is proof of nothing, my dogs know better,

for I carry odors of gunpowder

and blood and manure and straw and soap,

and no one knows how a state of grace

can come and go within seconds—

if life is better ended on an inhalation expectantly,

or an exhalation spent.