Dawn Chorus of Regret

Three AM, then four, then five,

each hour a small, hard stone.

The ceiling crack, a jagged line

above my head, alone.

My eyes, dry grit beneath the lids,

begged for the dark to stay.

Then the sparrows, those little kids,

began to shout the day.

Too loud, too bright, too terribly

insistent on the sun.

The world, unsparingly,

begins again. I haven't done

a thing but lie here, stuck and slow.

They sing about what I don't know.