So What Does This Tell You?

One bird in the meadow chorus
Has a call that sounds to me
Like, “wakey-wakey-wakey.”

The chorus is cacophonous
In a low-key, ear-friendly way.
The pulsing trills and cries, rising

Along with the background rush
Of unseen Handspan Creek, fresh
Grass scents, and the lush variations

On green shade, the elaborate interleaving
Of interdependent competitions, different
Strategies for spring, remind me

That my flesh has arrived by descent
From a long ancestry that proved content
To thrive in places like this. Like this.

My senses were born for this,
Although they didn’t know it yet,
And this doesn’t know it, or care, never will.

To know this. To know. Face in a pillow,
Color of the backbone of night,
Hours before dawn started in this meadow,

I woke thinking, Be these senses,
The fabric of being the only being
Who can be sensing these things. Like this.

But really. “Wakey-wakey-wakey”?
What am I thinking? I know the faint, fond
Ringing in my ears isn’t telling me anything.