It is that time of year
when the dawn chorus seems to last
all day
and only experts can parse
the sound
into its component parts.
I no longer hear
the screech of the owl
that tears night from day,
for I am still safe asleep
in my dreamless dark
as the sun rises
and calls the birds
to sing.
Those tremulous riffs,
complex movements of tongue,
throat, lungs
become triumphant sound,
calling to future mates,
defining hunting grounds.
And then, at the darkening
of the sky,
the night-jar’s churr
sings of warmth to come
and the owl’s quiet hooting
rejoins day to night.