It is the crest of 5am
when rough-throated garbles
of the rooster’s crow weakly
filter up through a minted dawn
on the day of the Lord.
Sparrows call the light no one else can see,
tell relatives on the crisp pointed maples
and heady oaks about the slithering bounty,
silver trails lead from a nocturnal feeding
on the tender folded flowers in the bean patch.
House finches and mourning doves heed the tale,
twitter then coo in swirled feathers, the dawn
lighting iridescent wings that hover over
fat, homeless snails inching their getaway
by the nights last true moments.
Across the yard where new highway construction has halted,
shadowed machines on the banks
lumber as ancient beasts, iron dinosaurs
with heads rising above red-tipped leaves
chilled by the solemn beginning of autumn’s breath.
The rooster calls again and brings notice
to the shimmer through the blinds, a burning white disc
whose beams trick the old cock
into dreams laced with coming dawn
and cracked corn spread around the dirt.
My fingers split the dusty slats to see the moon smile,
hear her whisper your name like a mantra
until it finds its way between the fan blades
gently turning as if lifted by wind. It coaxes me
to the shelter of quilted covers
where warm child limbs
ease me back to sleep.
Aleathia Drehmer 2008
Published by The Poetry Warrior, Issue 3, 2/09
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