Listen to Jane Hirshfield reading this poem. Again I looked out the window. All around me, the morning still dark.
The mountain’s outline there, but not the mountain.
Then a neighbor’s facing plate-glass filled
with the colors, acute and tender, of a Flemish painting.
Which seemed to be a preview of the future but were,
this moment simply looking elsewhere,
like a woman who has wept for weeks who realizes
that she is also hungry.