like incense

I can hear the traffic beginning to pick up steam for the day but all is still and silent on my street.
Well, except for the crows. They already are on the move.
And except for the geese riding high against the morning light.
Oh, and a small black squirrel sprints for safety.
A woman returns with her dog from a brisk round the block march.
A man stiffly clad for winter pedals stiffly by.
In the distance the first siren of the day wails.
The morning light has washed across the sky.
We waken, we rise, and a plume of woodsmoke ascends like incense.