The birds have quit
their matins and the quotidian sounds enveloping me ,
Dishes in the kitchen from the breakfast making,
newspaper pages rustling as readers make ,
their way through the latest word, an airplane
roaring overhead, and neighborhood lawnmowers
picking up its charge as it passes
Leave no room for illusion,
are not the dreamy birdsong of dawn,
arent even the quiet crowing of
the train then in the distance.