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.
Authors bio is coming up shortly. 