Through the smoke of my breath
In cool morning air
I see seven blackbirds land
With precision and synchronized
On the wires crossing my street
I see them and I watch
I listen and I hear them
They are the sound of morning
And the taken-for-granted sights of morning
All around me the painted leaves twirl down
Leaping toward their roots
Like suicidal lemmings
The aroma of the chimneys caresses my nostrils
In cool morning air
Coffee brewing in the glowing lit kitchens
Fogged windows and frosted windshields -
Fraternal twins of autumn
Taillights glowing in Ansel Adams driveways
Muffled news radio barely audible
A cold crimson sun trying stay asleep
Reluctant to promise a warm day
But I am comforted and warmed
By the memory of the night before
When it did not matter what season it was outside
It was the season of Love inside
©2000 poetheart