I awoke to the sound of morning.

It was the sweet but reedy song of

the pond birds that replaced

the orchestra of frogs and crickets composed

by the moon each night.

The whinny of a horse

and the call of a raven add a bridge to the

smooth tempo of the chorus.

I peered out through the hazy mist of

7 am,

imagining the speckled clouds like

nature’s music notes, shifting,

as if the sun could not decide

which song he would like to hear.

I wanted to join them.

Dance without care

or embarrassment,

as the chickadees catch the high notes

and the jays set a beat.

But alas, the mist kept them mysterious

in a hollow city

of arbutus and fir.