Today, Without Authority

Today, without authority, I woke to morning birds.
Without authority, today recalled the feral night that fled.
Without authority, I listened to today’s trucks passing—
       their diesel hauling diesel, hauling batteries, sent-back clothes.
Without, today, authority, I pondered their drivers’ lives, their drivers’ children.
Without authority, I stood above—too quiet to hear, today or any day—
        root-mats of fungi.
Without authority, I stood inside—so loud, no ear could bear its song—today the light.
Without authority, made plans today for walking, shopping, dinner.
Without authority, believed today I’ll sleep tonight in my known bed.
Without authority, I checked the ratio today of CO₂, of salmon-hatch,
         of corals dead to living.
Without authority, I watched my kind today misplace again its kindness,
          a book or scarf or hat left behind when the bus arrives, stops briefly, leaves.
Without authority, today, I joined the living’s murmured, “Let me live.”
Without authority, today accepted death’s reply, “Perhaps. For now.”
Without authority today, I spoke this day’s apology, its syllables’ complicit unclothed trembling. 
Without apology, I spent today this hour that held my human presence, even so.