September 12, 2001

The day after, we drive the dogs to the park,
still unsure about the place of happiness
in our new world, but weary of predicting
where our bombs will fall first, sick of watching it
happen over and over on every channel.
The dogs break the silence in an empty field
just beginning to green from September rain.
The evening sky is clear of contrails, a gull
the only wings aloft over the lake. I hate
myself for thinking this is beautiful.