First Bird

Two mornings running-or does this make three? -

I've suffered from this bird's precocity.

Like a raw chorister who's jumped the gun

he sings before the faintest touch of sun

powders the deeper dark to deep twilight.

If he can see an end at hand for night

he's sharper-eyed than I am. He can't wait,

trilling and warbling to accelerate

what will occur on schedule. When the flocks

join in, they sound aggrieved. Perhaps their clocks

synchronize more with mine than his, or they

assume a warier mood in meeting day.

Count me with them, although I know, of course,

that little syrinx can't evade the force

goading it on to jubilate alone.

Why should I take exception to the tone

twittering up from instinct's feathered pawn?

Briefly I do, then drowse from dark to dawn.