by Kristen Berger
Tell me which bird wakes first.
The meadowlark’s throated plea or the wren’s woodlot concerto,
mourning dove releasing the seam of sky from the earth
with her notes of clear sight and cant?
Wake to learn how it’s done.
How to leave yesterday’s song alone, how to clutch and release.
The harrier’s wing throws enough shadow
to find the life it needs.
Terror of sun. Blessing of thermals.
True center lives behind the breastbone.
There is no song it slices the morning with –
Soft wake of the hunt,
day, yet to live.
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