This dawn

Soldier daughter phones at 4 a.m., sobbing.
"Mom, it hurts. It still hurts, when does it
stop hurting?" Dark still. Dark. Still, but for traffic
streaming down Fremont Bridge into the city.

I bake two apples, hot on a chill October
morning. Raisins in butter, cinnamon, walnuts,
the fragrance drifts under my door,
waking my neighbors to memories of other
Octobers. When does it stop hurting?

Crow calls into the frost, two, three, four, five caws.
No answer. Light blazes into the sky, flames sear
layers of cloud. Distant crow, one, two. No answer.
Morning, and in this massive blaze of light,
in this vast moment between crows, no answer.