Ever to know is silence, the mockingbirds sing
early darkness until their wish is realized.
The branches know no bounds, and genuflect.
Sap is their silence, nothing exists which doesn’t
obstruct the sun, except for the sun. Here it comes.
Mockingbird shadows trace the street’s contours.
Mockingbird song traces my ears. The traffic
begins, and each light is a wishing well.
Ever to wait is listening, hear yourself think.
I’m listening to something, don’t know what yet
is raising in me the hope of what’s-to-come,
a hope which furthers nothing. Which speaks truly
too quiet for me to hear. Before work I heard it,
as the traffic idled and the sun blinded those
of us lined up due east, heads tilted each
in our stillness to a light in morning prayer.