Saturday morning, 5:30 a.m., and already the cat has pushed a flashlight onto my sleeping head and the dog has fallen noisily down the stairs. Ergo, I am not in bed where I belong but drinking coffee in the kitchen and mending my disgruntlement. At least the house is warm.
When I let the cat out, I stood still for a moment in the snow-packed driveway and looked up at the line of planets stretching across the dark morning sky. Shivering, I stared into those pinpoints of ice and fire; and beyond them, around me, beneath me, ghosts sighed in the shadows.
Yesterday 17 Syrian children drowned off the coast of Greece. As poet A. E. Stallings points out, that's a classroom-full.