[a southern somewhere before the equinox]

5:41 A.M.:—morning, a southern somewhere; this somewhere’s dew-warm air, swelling with tea olive, Carolina jessamine, viburnum; the dog’s low rasp unraveling as she relieves herself beneath a rambling rose, dead leaves keeping down the spatter, layers cramped and crackling, less so in this hour’s dampness; this owl now at the southern edge, now a freight train’s song it sings its song behind (above?), the fraying digits of cirrus clouds; a star or a planet testing its opacity, the tri-star handle of Ursa Major pokes out the purpled veil; the dog passes me for a second trip and this (and each) time I step beside a patch of mud for a buried, dead wood thrush, buried exactly where I found it, at the edge of a half-felled fig—I am imagining it burrowing free and flying away and not feeding the mites and worms and beetles and mycorrhizae, imagining it atop of the roofline or the hedgerows, newly hacked—more of the neighborhood and sky a telescoping neck away—, the asphalt at this hour, dulled by interstate, in a state of lull; only the sound of city air before wheels commute their hostages, carry their sentences, commas the needles of their execution, remains; only city air holding the thrush on high for one more day, this day that winter turns into a winter’s night—and its own grave.