First Bird Call Of Morning

The first bird call of morning

and my soul jolts awake.

Window open in the dark

of a February freeze.

I can be asleep for days

flipping switches,

closing doors,

pressing buttons

in modern convenience.

Is this why my grandmother

always slept with the window open

beside her bed at night?

Drafty upstairs room

with no heat in winter,

she still kept a couple inches

of the outside coming in.

Did she know the animal in her skin?

Hot blood coursed with life

for the nature it belonged to,

in her farmhouse

no longer surrounded by fields or forest

now houses and highways,

she entwined her breath

with the breath of the earth

through that small crack of a pane.

The candle flickers out

and I am almost glad for it.

Somehow even the light of fire

feels imposing to this hour

before the sun rises,

and I want to feel the truth

of what really is

without my making.