Quite the insistent bird outside, a piñata of a bird,
smack-stuffed, full of bluster and call, her beak
a cross-speak of mashed morning and the way night lately
has pushed more into the day. It's travel season,
when suitcases mean business, and every hotel's
a distraction from the zip code song of the local.
Let's wade into the time when these hills festoon
themselves in the pre-cold flame like a wake held
for the sun. Most days, can't fit everyone we love
into the hours we have. We entertain the fingers we're left
in ways our eyes cannot endure without pinching.
If we could carry a tune without handles, we might find
our song, swaying, a reticulated thought rising,
words not right, but long-limbed, clear, versed in trills
and rolls, a chanson de matin, amid morning bellows
as we sing it into being from our perch in a flaring tree.