COMFORT IN THE MORNING

The cowbird calls me 

Out to my back porch.

He works in concert with the morning as the mist lifts off the grass,

crystalline drops decorating each leaf.

Maybe Walt listened to the cowbirds as he wrote.

They provide good, steadying company,

grounding me into remembering who I am. 

I let their song like water glide over my shoulders and arms

laden with the cares of yesterday 

and the worries of this afternoon.

No matter how many times he comes to the feeder and calls,

he leaves me listening with awe and wonder.

How does he do that? Transcend

His form and state, becoming

Lithe, supple, lyrical? 

His beak punctuates the air with falling water

Moving, fluid, burbling like a brook:

Strong enough to cut the stone;

Wise enough to trickle in and calm my mind;

Slow enough to remind me.

His mate is a counterpoint,

Buzzing, rattling, almost mechanical.

Rolling along just the same,

Just like the sound of water.

Not as soothing, but a reminder:

The day is still here and so are my cares;

I can exist in a world that holds it all.

I don’t have to eschew the rattles.

I can roll along and appreciate the punctuation.

I can be agile, flexible in my understanding.

The page will be here just like the cowbird.

Urging me on, allowing the words to weep 

Out of my laden heart.

Sometimes my foot catches on a rock as the water pushes me forward,

Capturing me and then releasing me

To do the job in front of me,

To put the words on the page.

The cowbird lingers a moment longer, 

and then flies off.

He and his mate are satiated.

Image by Jason from Pixabay