March 15, 2004
© 2004 Linford
Dawn arrived a few minutes ago, and the birds are no longer chattering the news.
Every morning, without fail, they fling themselves into the last minutes of dark light,
chorusing the end of it or the beginning of the light.
A few remain now calling out, the way the vanguard does
When it is their turn to witness
After a processional has passed.
It is Bach now, after the Alleluia chorus,
After the crescendo, the climax
An explosion marking the end of night.
A series of soloists throw out short phrases in Gregorian chant,
Plainsong building on a small thread while silver turns blush in the early morning sky.
Then a Jay pushes in, tunelessly squawking the day�s catch of fish
Heralding the opening of the market while
The soloists chant their offerings to the blush filled sky
Ignoring the fish wives of the avian world.
The new week begins on these few minutes which I will forget until, walking by the lake
I see the ducks go suddenly bottom up
Without concern for who is passing by.
Other works by Suzanne Linford