wake up call

it is the crack-the-windows-at-midnight –
but-burrow-under-the-covers season
and time to pull awake from dreams of
public transit and airplanes in wind shear
to slow the heartbeat and listen and notice
what’s here, what’s now, like who is talking
in the lilacs - “spink!  spink!” - and to check out
the quarrels of starlings and the little
domestic sounds of water bubbling in a pan
and of tea leaves taking the big dive into
the mug with a poem on it. it is the crack
of midmorning and the cusp of leftover
winter storms; it is the exact center of
nothing much upon which hangs everything