The duck song wakes me, singing our canal
into existence, snipping bolts of dark
from the cloaks the waking duck-and-coot cabal
flew in the face of nighttime in the park.
Crows fly until the sun, touched, tips the earth
so light leaks in. Wood pigeons coo the grass.
A falcon scream creates a stream that’s worth
a trip, the other birds think, and they pass
my window in review in ones and twos.
Their songs connect canal and stream to lakes
where herons intone fish and note which choose
to dive or be the breakfast they will take.
I, also recreated by bird song,
salute the flocks and, singing, fly along.