The skies are grey—who can say
when the sunrise came? All yesterday
I was reading about disasters.
In my feet and hands the fires and hurricanes.

There was a bird underground, the whir
of frantic wings on a subway, the hurt
of pecking starving for crumbs.
I did my best, but you know what it was worth.

The blind sun's rise today on the turnpike.
I am a flightless bird on a bus with shut eyes,
and I saw there is nothing between us
but the miles.