The doors are locked and I’m searching for a way in. 

I circle my house intent on finding a crack in the system

I painstakingly created, a loose bolt, a faulty window.

It’s still light in Vermont but in one hour the sun will dip

behind the mountain, temperatures will fall, and I may still

be stuck outside, cursing. There are friends. There are neighbors.

Or I could resolve nothing, sit on the cool grass and wait.

On my iPhone, I view my furious attempts to break in

recorded on the outdoor cameras. There are family members

who hold a key, but rescues have never worked for me in the past.

I consider places for lost or hidden keys. They say gratitude is a key.

Solitude is a mountain. There are pines, cedars and hemlocks,

a range against the mango-magenta horizon,

a red-tailed hawk circling its prey.