The birds sit, goofy and slake.
Feathers drift, sift, settle on
chairs like soft shells shaped
by whisps of room air.

There is no thought, no plan.
Two white birds in two cages for
safety. The trill of calls penetrates
the living room air as if waiting
for the cue to caw to begin.

I hear you release the still
blue note, the crying color  
of the muezzin to my sleep.

The birds raison d'etre is your
morning blue creamy face.
My arms stretch to you.

Our blue
skies dawn and
the song

begins.

Again.


Caroline Shank
07/25/22