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
to flick them off,
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
examining with its paws
turning the object over
to sense, to know it:
eyes seeking far beyond the water,
for possible movement in the grasses
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 alignment with
each flash of the knife.
I might still resemble the raccoon
in other ways
through the pantry
so the potatoes don’t burn
hearing the quaking thunder of raw slices meeting sizzling skillet
as I flip them, in this quiet kitchen,
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.
this new March morning on the planet.