I took myself outside to seek a dawn which did not come.
Cool, cooler than most mornings we've
had for the past five or more months.
Dawn's only evidence: white sky where
once night's charcoal glowed with city lights.
Occasional cool breezes stir the tulip poplar
leaves, make the yellow ones dance excitedly.
Acorns have started their rat-a-tat assault
on neighborhood roofs. Only ours seems
spared, which also seems impossible.
Cawing crows on the move signal some
kind of discontent. Who knows with crows?
Murky morning light half-reveals visitors
to bird feeders full once again with seed:
cardinals claim high perches; nuthatches
perform hit-and-run, exuberant, vocal.
Gray squirrels blend into the bland,
starting their day-long search for dropped
seeds and other treasures. In front, cars
swish by more frequently with each minute.
Dawn marks morning's commute these days.
Now Wren takes up his daily post on our
stairway, trilling his claims to the morning,
or perhaps just boasting. His simple song
gets answered by another wren who voices
"Where'dja eat? Where'dja eat? Where'dja eat?"
Scree-ing discontent or merely hunting, a
red-shouldered hawk cries from the top
of the tree canopy, scattering cardinals,
but not anyone else. A third wren joins his
friends with a shrill version of the cardinals'
soft sibilance, and rail-wren answers.
Overhead, one of man's attempts to
emulate birds whines, sounding as if
it will imminently be crashing.
Do you remember when you woke as
a child and the day held nothing but
possibilities? When all that mattered
was Now? When so little Past sat on
your shoulders, you couldn't feel it?
97/100
100 poems in 100 days
