The dawn is wide with light,
air
tall as the last faint star
over
an edge of night
when
the quiet sun lifts
full
over fields
where
broad corn moves,
green as the garden
here
at my feet.
I
hear unstrung
the
peace of a great morning,
shorten my sight
to
the wall where the wrens flit,
quick with seed
that
is spread for them.
Day
lurches
and
they are gone,
piercing the curtain of willow,
their fear sharp as cut flint.
I
turn to the house,
hearing tuned
to the
dance of day,
to the
birds who return
as
they always do,
filling the world's long silence,
deeper and higher,
with
their vast chant.
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