Wednesday, July 29, 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,
                    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.