The Birdsong Breaks the Morning
Brandon Cook
How incongruent the birdsong breaking the morning, as if unaware
A prophet or an imbecile?
My belly—instead—woke in flames of fire, trembling like a wind-blown spire
With fear, a spreading dread, at some hidden thought,
My body seeming once again to know before me—
Making sense of things unseen—
Believing something wrong
But that song:
It dreads no thing
The fringes of its reality marked with no dark edges
Just spring
As I lie in the dark
As I wonder if the lark
Sees things as they are
Or only as they could be
Or as they are, but still
Choosing song and spring
Sings,
Singing in the bright, pink morning