Waking Up on Friday

Orange sunlight
fills the body
still half

in a dream,
and slowly drips
consciousness all the way

down to the toes
and fingers.  In
the brevity of sunrise,

you are the impermanence,
like the dream
you are leaving,

a brief vessel
for the sweetest of birdsong
and the scent

of dew
rising through
the open window.


There is the sky.
There are imprints
on the sky – grayscale

poles and wires
so full of electricity
and communication,

the geometric buildings
with their mirrored windows
reflecting your place

in the morning arrangement.
A bird-shaped
vacuum of light traces

the raven
as you wander
out of town, unrolling

across the river
on the trellised bridge
and the charcoal memory

of locomotives. Overhead,
steel crosshairs entangle
the gathering clouds

and an impossible slice
of bald eagle carves itself
out of the atmosphere.

There is the lithe contour
of the naked cottonwoods,
then only the wide expanse

of open sky,
or the occasional
flicker of bird

to remind you of
the many imprints
you left behind.