That’s what habit means…
The war in the news has grown tiresome,
Its landscapes from the window,
In the morning a roll call of the living.

Draws attention to itself
Sudden silence without screams, without words,
The song
Of crickets,
The chirping of birds.
And, having felt a zest for living,

Despite the night strike,
You write to a friend: “Hi.
Nothing special,
Our team is in place,
Of all that’s truly strange —
Maybe that the rose has bloomed.”