Early morning. The tree outside my window
is plentiful with songbirds. Cardinal, blue jay
is that a finch? I don’t know the names
of these bright feathered visitors,
each alighted on its own branch
in a harmonious arrangement.
And then, as if in answer to my wish,
some cosmic calligrapher begins
to pen the name of each bird beneath
its branch. The elaborate and elegant script
spells out – I can’t remember what.
But it is not the real name of the bird,
it is instead a humorous moniker
written in such a serious hand. I laugh,
a bright joy in the bright darkness
of sleep. I wish I could remember
what was written there. If I could,
then maybe now I would hear
your laugh, too.