I’m there when the black night shifts into

the azure-yellow knife of sunrise.

it’s the tail end of the new winter,

different than how I remember it.

the shorebirds came back last week,

and next time I promise to go with them.

a blue heron swallows a fish whole like

it’s afraid of missing the good part.

there is no singing this morning,

just the deep breath before car horns.

the hymnal books are all radio tower

notes and telephone wire lines,

so I hum my own tune to the birds.

I read somewhere that nature is

disappearing from literature

the same way that it’s leaving the earth.

but there it is— here where I wrote it down.

stay a little longer.  I need you to stay with me.

this can’t be the end.  it’s just another morning.