Sunday Sunrise

I don't precisely know why I am driven
to slip on canvas shoes with sequins
and step out into the early dawn.

It has rained; the yard is crisp and quiet,
every leaf distinct, sharp as a knife,
and the blades of grass
bend under water droplets.
Everyone is still; I am the only one
who is still awake, except
the birds. Their voices carry,
chirp

chirp

chirp

I know the sound, but do not place it right away.
I look into the next yard. Along the fence
a flash of red reminds me, and I see you.

I stand in the yard, dew soaking through the canvas shoes,
wearing a sweater that used to be yours
and watching the cardinal watch the world.

I venture back toward the door;
the cardinal,
then another, swoop down across my path,
perching for a moment in the front yard tree.

A moment later they are gone, but I hear them,
chirp

chirp

chirp
and I know that you are watching me,
even here, even in the gray morning
of an unfamiliar town.

I wonder if you know that underneath your sweater
I wear a man's undershirt. I wonder
if you know that I think of your smooth dancing
though I never got to see it.

Through the night's dark hours I cannot sleep,
heart too full and mind too unoccupied;
in the expanse of stars and universe
I am small and too alone. But
with the watery sun and morning mist
I feel at peace and ready for my bed,
with cardinal song slipping in
through the window.