Madeline Allen

Aubade

Time passes. My hunger comes back.
This morning I cooked eggs, brief miracle 

of two yolks cradled in one cracked shell.
How could I leave when the sun is still rising? 

Starlings swoop and crowd, clot together
to cover the tatters of blue and pink clouds marking 

another beginning. I could only spend
so long as a wound. Instead I’ll surrender 

to the dew around the water towers, watching
the streetsweeper startle a pitbull awake, 

hickory nuts resting where they land.
Things come together. The rest is breath—

brief confusion with the air—a window fogged.

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Madeline Allen studies creative writing at Allegheny College. You can find her work in Biscuit Hill and forthcoming from The Oakland Arts Review. When not writing, she enjoys running and watching horror movies.