Sunrise' polyphony subsuming last night's silences.  So too,
corona's chaste environs have no place for Avril's fool.

This morn's melodies exhumed by me, fended off dissonance,
until it rose to this afternoon's busy messes cacophony.

Yet, as an avian's trill still rings true, birdsong was sung of what
I'd done, a symphony of empathetic acts danced to a soul's tune.