The morning mist conceals the birds,

yet still their lilting song

is heard.

 

I lay a while beneath my shroud

listening to the

warbling cloud.

 

The coffee cup drains itself

while topping up my

fickle health.

 

From radio’s reluctant news

blooms yesterday’s

emerging bruise…

 

to spread its spill like rancid oil

toward the day

as if to spoil…

 

the warming gift of light reborn,

like birdsong dulled by

muffled dawn.