Telling Time

From the kitchen,
I can hear the cop show’s score;
they’re playing the Music of the Sad Reveal
so it must be quarter past the hour.

There’s a creak from the front stairs,
two sets of feet clomping up in winter boots,
and it’s Tuesday, so it must be
half past by now.

If I close my eyes I can hear the heat coming on,
can feel the chill settling in on the windows.
No need to go outside to see
the streetlights coming on.

I have ancestors who must have read signs
in the wind, the water, the sky and the upturned leaves.
Nothing has changed.  I live
the clock I’m given, call the hours as they come.