September Sunday morning at dawn,
during the first light drizzle in weeks,
the bedraggled crow
cawing from the walnut tree despite the rain
does not have to be here. Any more
than I have to be here, or the tree,
or the rain. The world could go on.
Or not. Smell of coffee
from the cup I have carried out with me,
smell of dead leaves. Damp light.
Warm memory of making love a few hours ago.
"That the world is is the beginning of mystery,"
wrote Wittgenstein, ripping off Parmenides.
But "world" hides behind specifics,
the new day,
each particular raindrop,
not some other crow.