The cardinal is first; then mockingbirds join
and sometimes a distant titmouse. It is gray,
yet, outside and the fog sleeps on the fields.
Soon every bird will join to sing the sun
into the summer sky and me from my bed.
Some close windows to keep out the night
but they also keep out the new day;
I would fall asleep to the chuck-will-widow's
lullaby and waken to the cardinal's whistle,
the wren's rustling at my window.
There is a stillness of the air in this hour,
no breeze upon the fields nor business
of insects. Dawn will burn away
the fogs that cling to summer's edge;
winds will rise to finish morning's song.
Stephen Brooke ©2009