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Come to Terms with the Morning
Somewhere far it wasn't midnight, yet
here tonight, midnight seemed endless.
The open mouth of the window whispered:
a bird, confused and upset, chortling
and beating its head against the trunk of its tree.
An angered, yet impotent wind blew
and rapped the broad string of a flag
against its staff; the silence ruptured by its ringing.
The feline, ever-woken, pads a place to rest
and digs his stubbing claws into the bedding.
His widened-eye attention draws to shadows
cast by our befuddled bird who cries against the dawn.
Caught by light of moon and star, he flutters
and fights to shoo away what's ruffled him,
stirred him and in turn, forced me to come to terms
with the earliest morning I've seen in days.
