The Birdies Know This Poet
all the colors, all the lights;
darkness conceals object
on wheels, long..long..long.
blinking in twilight, stretching
miles and miles - I exaggerate;
surely across the width of
across-street-neighbor’s yard.
my mind’s pondering what
was it for? and for that neighbor
or merely parked? now it’s eight
and a trumpet sounds out of gate.
the trumpet calling reveille,
as if I’m back in military; curious
day for a poet; and familiarity too
with cheep..cheep..cheep, etc
etcetera, etcetera (as the king
of Siam would twist his tongue
in emphasis and pride) today,
begins loudly…quietly…beautifully;
now a trill and more - call of forest,
as if the birdies know this poet
is transcribing and describing.
alive, like the sound of music.
alive, another day before the big day.
so begins the celebration; sisters
taking me, who knows where,
after this who-knows-what-compare.
today, I’m winging it…
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