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Songbird in the Mimosa
by Ann Howells

Two minutes before sunrise,
he sings the day into being:
rustle of waking
and five sleepy notes.
Morning comes, pink and gold
basks in captured sunlight
and birdsong.
The featherling cries out:
Rue, rue. Do. Do. Do.
He trills a few measures,
and we, a jaded audience,
demand a symphony.
Our bones crave
his strange poetic meter;
vibrating notes glissando
our spines.
But he pauses as he will
in his operatic joy,
a melodic concert
with random intermissions,
until the lawn, again,
tints purple, navy.

 

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