The world awakes
to headlights,
the sound of birds
and coffee makers.
In the dimly lit east
Venus holds her place
as the night sky fades.
I look from my window
through the bare branches
of the plum tree.
Just one of the heralds,
I call in the morning,
cranky with pain
and dull of thinking
yet like an old wolf I rise,
crane my head into the sounds
and smells of whatever stirs.
I see black winged crows,
hear the roar of a bus,
bless the pilgrims
on their morning journey
and announce myself
to the gods of the day
lest they forget I’m here.
Watching the dark dissolve
my old self drops away
into the web of root and rock
and I’m fed to the earth
for the flowers of spring.