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It is a calm, cool morning of spring.
No great currents stir the soft air.
From the window's small aperture
Communications rise : the keen,
Accelerating cry of a song sparrow,
The liquid rattle of starlings, low
Moans of doves. Juncos show their
Parallels of white, dropping from
Bush to bush in pairs, each motion
A flash of monochrome and a trill.
Across the yards and thin fences,
Neighbours come sleepily from a
House to pack their car. A saline
Smell on the air, perhaps from the
Tidal river two blocks to the north,
Perhaps from the great grey surface
Of the sound itself. Streams meet
And fasten and merge in the dull
White overhead. From inside the
House, a formless, endless sound
Rises : the warm churn of bathwater.