Last day of the month—
 
in sizzling Arizona
 
even cacti wilt.

 
 
 

Blackbird, dare I hope
 
that when you sing at daybreak
 
I will know your song?

 
 
 

The tint of this stone
 
and the color of my skin—
 
how alike they are!

 
 
 

Questions at daybreak:
 
Mountain, who is your master?
 
River, your mistress?

 
 
 

so many questions
 
for stones and oaks and blackbirds
 
so great the silence

 
 
 

early morning stroll
 
through an old apple orchard—
 
bushels of birdsong

 
 
 

Blackbird on the fence,
 
it’s not even first-light yet!
 
Why can’t you be still?

 
 
 

my father’s Bible
 
old stains of coffee and tea
 
gracing the pages

 
 
 

ravenous mower
 
gobbles up every grass blade
 
in my neighbor’s yard

 
 
 

Magpie on the fence,
 
what have you to share with me?
 
Let the tales begin!