At 6:15 a.m. the birds begin
Their heavenly communication. Sequences
Of eighth note triplets call out questions in
The morning cold, and half note falling frequencies
Answer. Their exchanges evaporate early
Brain fog and buoy up my middle guts
Like a helium balloon. Leftover swirly
Dream thoughts clear, and my chatterbrain shuts
Its beak for these brief measures. Unable to rest,
It queries in its nerdiest voice, “What kind
Of bird IS that?” Like a museum guest
Fixated on the label, canvas-blind.
They don’t sow, reap or gather, these singers.
Their unworried tunes are sunrise joybringers.
