Dawning

Around me, a cacophony
of morning sounds awaken me,
those first faint birdcalls subtle draws
to other chirpings, tweets and caws.

Airbrakes on a far-off road
likewise jar and likewise goad
other aspects of the choir to stir:
tapping of woodpecker and whirr

of the wings of hummingbird.
Then nature’s single most absurd
sound—the donkey’s seesaw bray—
that final harbinger of day.

Light invades the cushy dark
where my dreams had hoped to park
for another hour or so,
but instead, they quickly go

back to where dreams wait for us.
The labored gear shift of a bus
grinds me into consciousness
and a new day’s constant fuss.

In time, this route will not be taken—
this constant  cycle to awaken
will be softened as we go
unresisting to the undertow

of that silence more eternal,
that soft rest of the nocturnal
sensual in its quietness.
Is it more or is it less,

this agony of losing breath,
this stunning quietness of death?
Or when the sounds of living cease,
will we welcome the release

from this busy, noisy world
into which nature has hurled
us squawking, protesting and grieving
for the quiet nest we’re leaving?

Though we’ve increased in height and girth,
every morning’s a new birth
as creak of door and whisk of broom
rip us from the night’s calm womb.

Half grudgingly, we meet our fate,
arising to the ultimate
challenge to our energy:
the new day’s challenge just “to be.”