Word of sunup comes to me this morning
from birds, who cry a fair and pleasant warning
of the dawning of a rare and cloudless winter day.
Finches, blackbirds, juncos, siskins, jays
crowd the feeders, flock and sing outside
my windows, peck the snow, perch and ride
the dried stalks of flowers spent in seed.
We all awake to face the day with need:
they for the grains and seeds I grow and buy,
I for the startling rush of wings as they fly
overhead in their vital flocks; we all for the air
that carries them, all for the sun whose light we bear
within our very cells. So waken, singing
like the birds; celebrate their winging.