Small birds in May have so much to say
they can’t wait for the sun to rise,
before first light defines the horizon
they fill the bedroom window with music
the cat leaps onto the sill to listen.

These birds, I have suspicions, 
are trying to teach me a thing or two
about staying in the moment, awed,
tomorrow’s clean costume
forgotten in the closet.

In time small birds fly away
while I remain rooted listening 
to the sound of morning marching
toward noon, humming along
to what is, after all, my favorite tune.