I woke to things in their simplest forms: There is the dog, sleeping on her bed. There is the forsythia, yellow and twice yellow in the sun. That is the door, leading out to the yard full of morning. There are patches of melting snow, melding into the earth with stolen cheeky steps. Here is the woodstove, clinking and popping. There is the table, with the green of the bulb stems greener and higher and greener and more certain.