Aubade

Andrew Alexander Mobbs

I see them through the window just before sunrise

as I’m washing last night’s dishes, three glowing

orbs cutting through the slate fog from the far side

of the vast, crow-flecked parking lot. The kids are

maybe six and four, padded in their hot pink puffy

coats with their mother trailing slightly behind, 

yawning then smiling as she clutches her jacket,

succumbs to alertness through their laughter and the

lingering dawn chill. They scamper in wide circles, 

extending their arms like miniature planes, hoping 

to put off the cold car ride to school a little longer, 

a school continents away from where their parents

learned their letters, numbers, and colors. The mist

teases a glimpse of the light purple plum blossoms

flanking the pavement, and for a few sacred moments,

they’re shrouded from the cruelties of our world, 

savoring a piece of this Pacific Northwest morning

just for themselves. Good for them.