Beware the Early Song of Birds

 This morning was first morning of the year
When I awakened to the sound of birds
Singing as they looked for worms in earth.
So sweet the charming sound,
I wasn’t sure to cry or smile,
Opened curtains and shared the mirth
With visiting shadow dancing on the wall.

But as I danced, the shadow moved
Grotesquely as though now drunk,
Though I had no jug of wine.
I sang, though not as sweetly as a morning bird…
Suddenly as though they heard
Birds flew on their way.
Now rejected by both shadow and birds,
I go in search of morning wine.

By dusk, no doubt now drunk,
Body heavy with warm wine’s weight,
Spinning trees wave their woolen trunks,
Limbs and branches twist and join intoxicated dance.
Together as March winds bend our bodies,
Strange shapes of shadows at warped edge of wood,
Pagan squirrels watch the evening fall,
Uproot the world and join in echo’s song.

Who could sleep half-buried under grape,
Remember morning songs of birds
Worming into dreams, sensing sanity of blood
Drown intemperate, trodden on the floor?
Beware, I say, early morning birdsong
That leads to excessed vintage wealth.

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One thought on “Beware the Early Song of Birds

  1. As I read your poem, this is what my mind painted –

    An wayside alehouse in centuries past when men were the patrons of such places and the only women inside were serving wenches. It’s early morning and a traveler who has stayed the night wakes early to be on his way. As he goes about preparing himself for the day, he watches the sunrise out the room’s tiny window, hears the birdsong and as he turns to leave, notices his shadow. He leaves the room to inquire of some breakfast and perhaps some provisions for his trip.

    The great room is quiet except for the lovely wench stirring the embers in the fireplace. As he watches her he feels his interest grow. She comes to him and asks his pleasure which he tells her while allowing desire to show in his eyes. When she returns with his order, her cheeks are flushed pink, and he thinks that it makes no difference if they are pink from the kitchen or his stare, they are lovely! Biding her to sit with him, he starts to regale her with tales of his travels. He can see she is fascinated. Soon, so is he.

    Noon comes and she arises to serve the travelers and regular patrons. He finds himself lingering, reluctant to leave so attentive an audience. Her duties completed, she comes back to his table with a bottle of wine and he bids her to seat herself again.

    The wine comes to the end of the bottle, but not the traveler and his tales. The wine has loosened his tongue and the talk flows freely. The serving wench longs for the places he paints pictures of so realistically that almost feels as if she had been there herself! The empty bottles are always replaced as day becomes night. The wench serves the last meal of the day and returns to the table with yet another bottle of wine.

    The traveler notes her beauty and decides that the ruby of the wine is put to shame by the blush of her cheeks. He simply must indulge in her cheeks as he has the wine! Desire that was previously held in check is released with the wine and he grabs her.

    Do birds sing in the night?

    He opens his eyes to sound and sees a shadow dancing on the wall, but it’s not his, no, for this shadow has long, long hair and breasts and a wedding ring…

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