Morning Porch

Springtime opens
on the morning porch.
The woodpecker rat-a-tats

on cottonwood as we talk
about evolution. This bird, you say,
watched too many feathered peers

die on the dirt
eating worms, so he took
to the trees,

where he rapped his beak
against brown bark
until he found

the first sweet bug.
And in the sunshine,
we are evolving too –

from something that was
into something that is.
I am startled

by how easy it feels
to fly away
from familiar ground,

into the green branches
with you,
your feet folded

like wings in my lap,
the morning smell of coffee
and unbrushed hair.

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