Waiting

There is a stillness when
I wait. Everything seems to
be waiting. Even the shadows
appear to be still and my
dog looks out the window,
pointing at nothing, or so
it seems.

Then, out of the stillness,
I start to notice movement:
the water in the pond, the
occasional auto transversing
the road, and the oak leaves,
clutching themselves to
keep warm.

The watched pot doesn't boil,
or so the saying goes, but
still we watch it, not
believing that or any
of the other aphorisms
that could guide us so well.