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Morning Song
-Jen Arp
It begins at 4:30.
The orchestra
Warms up, tuning
Their instruments.
A bit cacauphonus.
Robins first,
Sparrows, wrens,
The odd blue jay.
Then the grey cat
On the bed, purring,
Reminding me it’s time
To eat.
Then there is
The rotation
Of the livestock.
One cat out,
One cat in.
Bob, ever the
Consummate percussionist,
Crunches the dry food,
Crescendo and diminuendo.
Then, the staccato beats
Of paws
Thundering across carpet.
Scrum for one.
I lie still,
Trying to fall back asleep;
Just a few more minutes.
Then you begin
Your percussion,
Softly snoring
Beside me
Just loud enough
To prevent reentry
Into the land of Nod.
Then there’s this poem,
It’s own driving rhythm
Punctuating
This morning’s performance.
I have no choice.
I pour coffee
And settle down
To enjoy the concert.
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