Here in the fledgling dawn, the sky
has yet to decide what color to wear.
I tug the chain and the ceiling fan
sets a tempo—swinging marcia moderato
I dawdle with the patter of rain,
lazy and scattered, among thin watercolor clouds.
The city is asleep and the buses don't run
but down the street, Lorena is already late
for work—even on Sunday.
Henslow's sparrows take flight
(they know nothing of Sundays)
from scrawny, brittle limbs.
They will return, and Lorena will
be home in the evening,
but a transient sky will always
melt into geyser blue
Perhaps I will always waver
and dally along the coast at low tide
straining my eyes to remember the colors
in every moment of melded sky
swaying to the ceiling fan in 6/8 time.