The birds have blown south.
Silence descends on the morning senses,
soon smothered by the 
cacophony of construction — 
jackhammers gnashing asphalt
masticating dreamed memories
faintly clutched and clouded;
the hope of a slow rise swallowed by the sun.

The birds have blown south 
for their own protection from the leafless future ahead,
leaving me longing 
for morning banter.

The birds have blown south
in syncopation with the axis
down our middle,
that throughline that 
so thoroughly divides
our year into seasons, —
our seasons into summaries 
of love and death and harmony 
between what is imagined and 
what is implored 
by the compulsion of our character.

The birds have blown south, 
and like all beasts of beauty,
they will return and regale
the tales of ripening time.