Birdsong of Shaker Way

Every day is perfect, if

when you wake, you hear birds

in the garden, in the yard. Birds

up and down, ushering in one more day

in all the houses on Shaker Way. Birds

on telephone lines, light posts. Birds

twit, twittering on trees

hailing fellow birds

with a nod of  beak—gray kingbird;

top-hatted, streamertail

tuxedoed, doctor bird—

busy-bodied hummingbird

tucking in, out, of pink, red ixoras

punch-drunk in love. Birds

preening for, chatting up other birds—

the oriole, the grass quit, in mid-song

on the lawn, in a dance of  birds

an all-day-long conference of bird;

red-headed woodpecker

—drummer boy, or girl bird

in this daily symphony of  birds

—an orchestra on Shaker Way

in serenade of each perfect day with birds—

from the very first mockingbird

heralding, in solo warble

one more day, filled with birds—

brightened, lightened, trilled by birds:

precious, diamond-throated

sweet song, miracle-toting birds

the-gift-of-day-is-here birds.

Bird, bird, bird. Hello bird.

You lift me up bird.

You sing the day beautiful, bird.