Some bow their heads and wait for their pens to move.

A ground cloud, like a fog, or an unexpected tide, pulls

them away. Through the haze, the quiet one half-raises her

hand, asks if – after today – there will be other chances.

Today’s exam, I want to tell her, is not today’s exam.

It is Everyman’s call, nothing in stone; a practice run

at squaring accounts; at facing what we did not plan;

at being alone; a reference to the clock on our wall,

whose hands advance with us or without us. I wait for

them in the dim, rapt hush. A curtain rises. Scenes – like

a showreel – flicker and flash: a hand untangling from a lover’s

grasp; a slap for a ranting three-year old; a prayer clasp. As if

to find answers, some raise their heads, gaze at a life scene

outside: A yellow-breasted blackbird on a branch, savoring

a grub in its beak. Other chances. Such a sweet ring.

Winter’s buried bulbs; bloom in the next growing season.