Long before the city opens
its yawning rev and rumble,  

and the sun is still snuggled
under horizon’s dark blankets,  

the birds send up
their festive invitations:  

mantra of twittered gossip,
melodious zen enticements.  

I sit on my balcony,
sleep a distant remembrance,  

interrupted nightly by the dance
of worst case scenarios:                     

fever, fires, insane
men who rule the world.  

The black sky soothes
the oppression of clouds.  

With all that we have lost,
is it wrong to love these birds?  

To feast upon
their joyous seeds of hope?