The Grackle's Throat

The sky is a bruise of a deep, heavy plum.

The coffee is cold and the crusts have gone hard.

My brain is an engine that's starting to hum,

looking out over the fence in the yard.

The sparrow is shaking the wet from his wing,

perched on the wire while the world starts to gray.

It’s a jagged and frantic and terrible thing

to be this awake at the start of the day.