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,
Their 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:
Earlier tomorrow he’ll try again.