Morning Comes Boldly

I feel my body tense, this mid-summer morning.

I hear the familiar families of little birds,

Boldly play their instruments.

Chirp, twitter, chatter.

Like some hundred, tiny monkeys in the trees.

Flit, flit, bounce, shake.

Thin branches and bright, green leaves rock in their wake.

They clamor,

“I’m here, I live, I’m exhilarated.”

I feel no song in my soul this damp, grey morning.

I envy the birds their simple ritual of dawn.

Their persistent duty,

their intentional life.

They give voice with their unafraid, clear, high-pitched trills.

There’s a distant bleat which becomes a bellow

through the morning air.

The trains travel at dawn.

Hustle, click, roll.

They blare who they are.

“I’m here, I’m viable, I’m en route!”

I envy the trains.

With their tried and true tracks.

Their offensive, confident voice.

Persistent-predestined.

These sounds through my open windows,

Make me recede into myself.

This long, winding centipede of energy.

Its constancy,

Its existence calls to me.

But, I shut the windows.

Turn on the artificial, cool air.

The humid air doesn't even answer when I ask,

“Where is my venture, my song?”

“Where is my no-think-steel-rail-trail?”

“Where is my strong, high-pitched trill of morning?”

Historical Monastery in Turkey

Staircase on Maloney Hill
St. Ignace, Michigan

Stain-glass Eyes