At sunup's verge, when shadows turn to water, 
the newest light looks freshly painted, 
just before it cedes the fight to stay apart 
from sunlight. From the oddest corners, 
spring keeps spilling. Flowers yip 
between new leaves, chock-full of colors 
target-shooting doldrums into dust. 
 
The dawn chorus has a way of resolving 
leftover dreams, putting odd details to rest. 
That's when valley people start their raucous day. 
 Down toward town, a chain saw cranking slow  
 bellows like a cow with spilling udders. 
 Another imitates a steeple bell, rusty and familiar, 
 though only under dint of faulty hearing, 
 that fosters my illusion of Hosannas. 
 
 Still the fading hour of sleep roots in, 
 as if spring blooms imprinted actual pigment 
 for memory's color-wheel. It soothes 
 the sad recall of dark-toned times
 that the reluctant past churns in my gut.  
 
 If this is how life's spice is meant to ripen 
 then my tongue is readying. And ears, 
 no longer sore from listening so hard, 
 like radio scopes trained toward space,  
 eager for incoming signals.
 
 Now, a draught of ease and relaxation sprouts. 
 Vastness: so very relative, when all context 
 roils up like smoke. How would songbirds warble 
 if their beaks could blow kisses to the wind? 
 How would the dawn chorus unfold with osculation?
 Until our protomonkey forebears clambered 
 down to earth, we too dwelt in trees. Then man 
 sought mud, and birds claimed sky. 
They sing, we kiss, so let’s do this: 
Let music and kisses 
plight kinship’s blisses.