I’ve taken to being the navigator,
to watching the roadside treeline for hawks
red-tailed or great, for kestrels and falcons.

To counting the balanced squares
of blank windows on
old brick office buildings,
to finding great beauty
in the fall of crisp black Zs
of fire escapes,
down to the ground.

And yes, I’ve taken to drinking good vodka
Near a full glass, one ice cube,
the juice of half a lime:

It speaks to the mind, to
one’s need for blurred logos,
that head-nodding sort of
Cosmic,
to think what the humble potato can become.

Amy Murre lives and works near the shores of Lake Michigan in southeastern Wisconsin. She writes poetry and prose, creates art, tends to family and animals, and teaches at the Milwaukee School of Engineering (MSOE University). Her poetry has appeared in various journals including Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, The Cliffs, Melusine, We’Moon, and Stoneboat, as well as in anthologies including From Everywhere a Little: A Migration Anthology. For the curious, Murre is pronounced like Murry.