right hand pointing

As Jake stirs awake,

the sun’s red-orange fingers

are prying through

 

a window pane.

He winces in the glare.

Dislodging crumbs of sleep

 

from the corners

of his eyes, he hears

Violet’s heavy breathing.

 

A platoon of blue quail

bursts into a reveille

of shrieks and two-noted

 

“Pecos” calls.  Jake

reaches for his glasses

on the bedside table

 

and eases them to the bridge

of his nose, anxious about

which of his two distinct

 

pairs of eyes will gaze

upon the uncharted day

of gall and brutal light.