The birds know
long before the advent of light.
Recumbent, you hear the mockingbird -
his entire repertoire of song -
the raven's guttural prruk
as he fluffs himself in preparation for flight.
Something stirs the vernal within,
and you rise, thinking to walk
in the first equinoctial light.
At the corner, your arms are drawn
to the neighbor's fence,
your mind to ponder his garden:
How dawn excites the rose.