Morning Song

Morning light drizzles over our dormant shapes.
Eyes open fighting not only the new day
now threading itself across our blanket
but the noises outside our window.
Then one by one you list them
by their song, the sounds
of the sparrows, the chikadees
the buntings to whom you listen
with ears that are decoders
of the dots and dashes of birds.
And so I too begin to translate their songs.
They say true spring mornings never
come up silently. They are listening feasts.
And when I finally achieve an awakening
and can identify one warbling white throat
you turn and your motion is toward me.