The Wind In The Morning
still close to the night.
the small ones whir and chirp awake
tentatively, with tiny breaths
while the new light is stretched
long and fuzzy on the ground.
one bird tries a single note
clarion of pure joy. . .
the sun rolls, already humming
trying to tickle the grass awake.
far out on the interstate
the traffic picks up
carried into my kitchen on the quiet.
the wind picks up too
and sways the trees in graceful, rhythmic dance
against that painted sky,
as I savor the last few muted moments
of half light
and the wind in the morning.
© Babaloo Bonzai and Babaloo Bonzai’s Zen Soup, 2010.
*this poem is for The Maestro