I peel the sticky gel snowflakes
off the front window
and notice them in the break-room trashcan
for the rest of the day.

Before this,
the contents of my coffee
swam in swirls on the countertop,
ice scattered through it,
and I marked it as the first spill of 2026.
A colleague says, “Off to a graceful start, are we?”
and my teeth grit together in false amusement.

Outside, against brick walls,
Anna smokes a cigarette and waves it at me.
A heron who doesn’t belong
is perched on the roof.
I stand there with her.

^{_{(Daily Writing 003)}}