by Judy Kronenfeld
I wake from the cavern
of sleep on a spring night
and move in the fur of dark
towards the bathroom,
surprised by four repeated
bird-notes—a bit like Beethoven’s
Fifth sped up—riding the dark
somewhere outside my open
window, piercing it like tiny, busy,
unseen sewing machine needles.
A very learned mockingbird,
perhaps, sending out
his lonely voice long
before dawn—when there are
even fewer competing sounds
than during these deserted
pandemic days—
awake with me, whistling
and trilling now, comforting,
as I lay my head
on my pillow again.
— from Juniper Volume 4, Issue 1