what is the color of the haze
where horizon ceases to be
an edge, waves permeating sky
until neither is the other

when my bawdy poet recites
I meet his silliness with groans
comment with a prolonged moan
to disguise my delight

I live in a triangle made
by the merging of two rivers
each day I watch to think wider
thoughts while the water sweeps away

blizzard sun blizzard sun hail rains
on the green grass but spring has sprung
lawn mowers and dandelions among
our snowman’s remains

when I wake to see the sunrise
I hear birds sing their dawn chorus

still clinging to old tradition
house finches sparrows and robins
together make the morning din
as light pierces the horizon

each bird labors to raise the sun
sashaying in bright new feathers
alone but also together
stretched from beaks to toes they’ve begun

if birds didn’t sing would light dim
morning never begin or day
cease to exist fading away
dawn become just notes on the wind

back from pestilence and famine
two scourges then drought I began
to doubt I’d have you back again
my bawdy poet

if birds didn’t sing would light dim
morning never begin or day
cease to exist fading away
dawn become just notes on the wind

birds rise early for love of spring
they sashay in bright new feathers
alone but also together
singing to turn sound into heat

cheerup purty purty purty
each bird labors to raise the sun
stretched from beak to toes they’ve begun
sure day begins with melody