This morning I adjust to the rhythm in things. Slow, unwinding sun rolls off the day. We turn, antennas tuned to a hidden exchange. Bach knew with his concertos and Satie: the sparrow's unnamed cry, the music of mornings, mute, light-bound, bent to an inner strain, traced across the sky like the colored stain in a window's glass, made to need the sun.
morning light the shape of birdsong carried by wind