Sometimes mornings are like this:

Like a Raccoon: Washing Potatoes for a Frittata

Holding the potato under running water

I turn it, over and over

finding the little eyes, then my fingers

working

to flick them off,

cleaning

my own eyes not watching  –  there,

but gazing off

to the left

the brightness of the kitchen door

through the glass

outside – into wind

and a faint glimmer of green

on visible soil

emerging from dwindling snow.

I feel my shoulders slightly hunched, like a raccoon

alongside streambed

finding treasure,

examining with its paws

delicately

turning the object over

and over

to sense, to know it:

eyes seeking far beyond the water,

for possible movement in the grasses

unconscious

instinctual

understanding without seeing

the smooth skin, the rounded curves

the inner taste.

I wash the potato, then slice it

returning from reverie

my eyes aware now

of each motion

in precision

in alignment with

each flash of the knife.

I might still resemble the raccoon

in other ways

foraging

through the pantry

moving quickly

so the potatoes don’t burn

hearing the quaking thunder of raw slices meeting sizzling skillet

as I flip them, in this quiet kitchen,

remembering

wild ways. Cracking peppercorns in the mortar and pestle,

picking rosemary from it’s pot in the sunny window,

quickly mincing –

I could be  – oh I don’t know –

prepping on a Saturday afternoon with 48 reservations on the books,

or up hungry in the kitchen the morning after a very short night.

Here, there, the impulses are the same.

The tools, the innate understanding.

Like a raccoon, a grebe, a great blue heron.

Surviving, together,

this new March morning on the planet.