Sunday Morning

It is Sunday morning and a north breeze stirs
the antique oaks whose canopy hides the sky
to the West, gray night lingers, hesitant to depart.
in the East, pale dawn sends slender fingers,
probing the foliage of the oaks and pines.
the birds bestir and leave their nests,
seeking sustenance from the feeders in my yard.
quieter on this day of rest, the street, busy on other days,
would be filled with platinum lights and scarlet
heat from passing cars, sporadic colors seen
through the green of my neighbors' yards.
my gardenia bush holds aloft white scented blooms,
amid green leaves I see fawn feathers stir,
as wee birds who rest there suddenly take flight,
wheel and soar into this Sunday's morning light.

(c)Anna Alexander

published in Skipping Stones 2006

Mindworm Press, Chesapeake, VA