Morning

The call of Red-bellied wood peckers pierce the morning

As the focal sphere pierces the dawn,

fighting obliteration by clouds promising a shower.

The clouds give way allowing the sun to blind and bathe me.

Even as drops of water

compete with the light for a spot on the grass.

I hear the drops but as yet only feel the sun.

The birds, too, ignore the tapping rain

calling to each other;

The raspy nagging of the titmouse,

The distant caw of my friends, the crows,

and the closer deep squeak of the nuthatch

as it heads downward on the dark trunk of a lichen-covered oak.