Birds are rising in the air, in song and wakefully
sing of seed and mates and they describe the dew.
These Saturday morning hours I do the same.
I brew a pot of coffee and walk outside,
to arrive nowhere, to reach only the soft green
of robin-dotted grass, the pines twined with ivy,
the deepening yellow light of the sun over the road.
My cat says never go to work again. This is better.
If we lose the rent, we will find a shelter of bent trees,
and I will bring you mice.
I think how naive she is, not knowing weekdays.
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