A wedge of sullen moon
As life awakes beneath.
Birdsong threads through
Trees, a staccato cacophony
Anointing the air
Like colored ribbons
Weaving back and forth
The timbre ever changing.
Green spring trees, tender, tender
An early nursery of life
Can anything be wrong with the world?
The hammock swings gently of its own accord
Perhaps a haunt, a ghost invisible.
Faint gunshots far in the distance last night
Where some would
Impose their vile humanity
Startling for a moment
Until sleep reclaims.
So it goes, this is the city.
The hoot of a sleepy owl in the morning
Echoes the cry of a distant train
While seed pods from maple trees
Flutter to the ground.
We have survived the dark,
It’s blackened mysteries,
Alien things that rattle us.
We are cradled in Nature’s promise
Of life beginning again each morning
While the moon above yawns, fades and disappears.