january emptied

making notes I am
sorting words, stacking cards
one dog barking

I look up at the dark blurs
some birds boring blindly
into running low grey clouds

above on the hill, the Gianicolo,
a cannon fires a puff of smoke into the chill
below, the city hears the signal, it Is noon

we board a bus of content silence
off for a bite of lunch, our own words blend,
weave and overlap with the others

then a little walking
through the crowds
a lot of talking

don’t hear what they’re saying
making plans I suppose,
some are gesturing, pointing,

laughing young women
heads together
recount social victories

no small children pulling against their mothers
today many little wrapped ones in blankets
lulled to silence on four-wheeled strollers

temperature is dropping
who is content?
there is some calm poised beyond complacency

after evening buses slow, then cease
overnight it is soundless
when imagination is the only border