A down feather on my left
sweater sleeve, empty

beer bottle buffed with a fresh coat
of snow on the sidewalk. Another
year left behind, another
comes into view. Beginnings often start

with a dormancy period.
Renewal can happen

while we sleep and the birds
are away. A woman cold and tight
in her long great coat kicks
the bottle toward the café exterior wall

where it spins and stops short
of becoming a noise maker

I didn’t miss hearing. Still
wouldn’t wake the dead
even on a day like today
when bottles roll toward me

as if the world has taken
a sudden turn.