The red-stained horizon
quickly brightens from
brass into blue and
the thrushes rush
into brave songs
proclaiming desire.
The hiss of the freeway
whispers a traffic report
into the sweet hush
of vernal-ish sunrise.
A dog barks at the
garbage truck’s moan.
I’m not going to turn
on the television yet.
The newspapers that plop
onto the driveway before
the blinding sun peeks up
are enough. Quiet. Like books.
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