not because there is a road
and a woman walking,
nor the trees lining this road,
the light at half mast
not the birds in v crayon
not the uneven houses lit up from within
not even the clapboards’ chipped paint
nor the fact she is not alone
in the cricket sound
not the sun setting nor a first star
not the lawns fading to black
nor the broken sidewalk,
dented signs, new blacktop,
not the atmosphere
amped after showers
not the catcalls making one stranger
nor the river gaining volume
making all sentient things still
crossing a bridge
not the lamp’s sudden flame
but the type of daisy
robins live among,
circle of light found on the table,
her gait, her motion, her speed.