Phibby Venable

A bird sang dawn into the room
I watched the ceiling miss the moon;
the moon so full of promises,
red gold in blushing undertones,
seductive, outlined by the dark.
Now lost in morning calls of pink,
deep throated songs of things at hand,
sang from a fine mist on the fern
I sandal softly from my bed.
There sounds the bass call of the crow,
already bent between the rows,
nudging seeds that should stay down,
up from the soft loam of the ground.
There goes the train that whistles hard,
in case some soul still lies about,
as everywhere the morning sounds,
give way to traffic as it mounts
in high pitched whines and tiny beeps.
I barely live inside the town.
I barely live inside myself.
But since a bird was kind enough,
to brave my wrath and wake me up,
I think the least that I can do,
is toss him bread, to have with dew,
while I slip quietly through the door,
and view the world, bright new, once more.