Spring moning poem

April morning

 

Wet gray pre-dawn

I step out past the slider

the air is like tepid, too cool

to be comfortable bath water

my cupped left hand holds

the diced heel of stale dry rye

bread, I toss it on the grass

for the geese that will come

or other birds if they come first

the trees across the street

are loudly alive with songs

and calls of many unseen birds.

(the photo is an autumn scene, I will have to go out with my camera, maybe I'll replace it)