What Is Going on Outside My House at 4AM in the Morning

Poem

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Birdsong for the Blind

The day has always a spare moment it
purposes for the birds, and they fill it
with a bazaar of whoops, the moment which is
the leftover part of night.

The calls come in taffy loops
from the top corner of the barn in the back of your mind
wearing all the brightest clothes from the closet at once.
They paint a smiley face in the middle air.

The hothouse of field hockey swoops,
the glintzy tinsel of girls,
another's axe-blows the throatiest,
it is jazz but tolerated.

The onset of dawn tamps the sawmill
but for the disturbances.

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