The Call To Morning Poem by Ken Nye

I wish I could sleep late.
But I feel the sun
pulling me into the day
even when it’s still well below the horizon
and the sky is only beginning to lighten.

Dawn is a magic time.

Occasionally deer linger in the orchard,
hoping to find just one more apple
still clinging to a lower branch.

The birds of early summer start their love songs
well before the sun rises,
lighting the morning air with a cacophony
of melodies and entreaties to “come live with me and be my love.”
It’s a wonder if any of these Caruso’s of the tree tops
are ever denied by the ladies.)

Early morning dew has settled on everything,
giving even weeds the appearance
of having been misted by the florist’s assistant
in order to freshen up the blossoms and bouquets.

Crows seem to think their role is to waken the world,
not with the lilting trills and trembling tongues
of cardinals and Baltimore orioles,
but with grating alarm clock cries
like the sounds that fill the air
in an automotive repair shop.

But even the noise of the crows blends
with the symphony sung by the song birds
and the breeze just beginning to luff the leaves
that are still spreading themselves out to inhale the sun.

My heart doesn’t want to miss the day’s beginning,
so my feet find the slippers on the floor in the dark,
the dogs sleepily stretch over to my kitchen chair
to nuzzle me a good morning,
and the day is begun
with melodies
and pollen perfume.