There is an opera singer
Of Friday morning parking lots,
Whose soft solo soars
Over empty spaces,
Through sleeping trees,
Past dimming lamps—
And then flutters
Between your ears.

All is still for now:
The wind holds its breath,
The birds stop their wings,
The trash drops its odor—
All is still
Till she stops singing
Her sweet, slow melody.

Now the sun can rise.