The plan to rise early
turned into a slump

returning to the covers
as the last coyotes

slouched off
and not waking again

till fat bars of heat
fell across the room–

full sun through the curtainless
windows I’d left open

for a breeze and to hear
the coyotes ululate,

and stentorian owls–
now I’m entering

a day that’s already
been made

proceeding impersonally
no surprises in the sky,

a uniform blue,
no the song comes

from below–
a warbler in the wash,

lusterless brown,
divorced from its

high notes–
also finding safety

and solace
in obscurity, also

speaking its mind
at the corner

of this day,
and with such

out-sized
authority–

what could it
be saying?