Watching my my twenty-something thousandth sunrise,
Not that I have personally seen them all,
Having ceded some to clouds external and internal
Or simply from being asleep at the switch
From night to day
I rejoice with a mildness appropriate to
Septuagenarians settled by semi-centuries
Of taking lives as they come
Not that I ever have
Two seagulls fly over
Golden sun-rays beneath their wings
Lifting my spirits. I pour tea.