Wednesday, January 7, 2015


    The eastward wind proclaims a passing train
    Whistling at each crossing through the town,
    And up above, the first descending plane
    Announces it will soon be touching down.

    The smaller sounds of birds and squirrels declare
    The business of the morning has begun
    With scavenging for precious breakfast fare,
    The search for food a task that’s never done.

    The quiet of the night has disappeared—
    The rumble and the hubbub of the day
    Have eve’s serene illuminations bleared
    And bustled contemplation far away.

         The poet sets aside his pad and pen;
         Tomorrow earlier he’ll try again.