Birds Before Coffee

Eyes half-open,

the motel room’s too quiet except for

bird calls splitting the silence,

sharp and shrill like scratchy records skipped.

They chatter over cracked glass,

mocking my restless head

that’s too tired to chase their flight.

Outside the window, shadows flit,

wings catching the fragile morning light,

something frantic in their chatter

like they’re warning the world

while I’m still tangled in last night’s dark.

No coffee yet,

but the birds won’t stop,

and neither will the ache of being awake

before anything else.