What I know about that rooster
down the road, belting out his good morning
this morning, is that he belts like no other
as if it’s his last morning on earth, as if
he has saved up all his breath for this one
outlandish out-of-the-ballpark belt,
the notes bolting up the hill filling this hill
and all the hills with something only he
can croon — his own music — but more
than music, his wild wisdom, bold
defiance, garish gratitude, everything
I want to seize this morning after a deep
sleep brimming with dreams and cool
mountain air, so content am I here looking
at you only there is no you, no need for a you,
only me settled in my body, in an overstuffed
chair, holding a cup of hot green tea and
porcelain bowl of blueberry yogurt,
my blue eyes inhaling the first light
of morning, eager to hear sweet music
of my own voice, blessing every breath it takes
for me to say whatever it is I have to say.
