Morning Song

By Jim Provencher

Waking to predawn summer stillness,
A pleasant coolness, the town asleep in river fog.
A few night-perch birdcalls try the darkness,
throat-clearing chortles, signalling, I’m here.
Adrift in the night, whirring and whispering
an overture of small sibilant cries.

This tentative faltering reminds me
I have less to say but something to sing.
Nothing better than to plumb the silence,
sound the darkness, join fellow first singers,
shy twittering gabbers whose prompt churring
cheers me to know in singing not to sing.
So I launch a high whining trill, chiming
dawn songs begun in darkness and delight.