there’s chatter in the ranks
at the purple martin penthouse
grackles quackle
taptoeing around
on limestone slabs
the smallest sparrow sings his heart out
to his muse
the rising sun

folks in their finest
julep slur
a mix of pomp and prep
they put their money down on the deep breaths inhaled through
the nostrils they think will cross
the finish line
first

the neighbor and her live-in
argue
tying strands of junk drawer string
to her rose bush
trying to coax it’s
wild-haired branches into submission
and up her bare columns

i
wait
wait
wait
wait
and listen
for the first croak of the
bullfrog