I hear a truck cough, roll over.
It crunches acorns,
shifts into second gear
and tires swish on wet pavement.
There is wind and I can tell
that the leaves are red, not green —
they are thick, brittle, castanet,
ready to let go and fall.
The insomnia of spring
is full of early morning birdsong
the subtle opening of earth
to the thrust of bulbs.
Now sudden high and distant honkings
punctuate the pilgrimage of geese.
In their wake are only
some thin sighing sounds —
the settling in
of the last late squirrel,
a chipmunk’s hasty flight
from its wild small fears
through corn stalks, around pumpkins
not yet chosen from the vine.
The fingers of darkness are stronger –
it takes a long time
before they set the morning free.