Sense of Morning

It’s just the fish—
or so I surmise—that hid
fin, scales from my eyes.

I saw the ripple:
a presence in disguise.
Later on, the robins

paraded rusty breasts.
Mockingbirds swiped
their white stripes and left.

The squirrels scurried—
left and right—and clung
to tree trunks, vigilant.

All the while I rode
steadily, humming to
the tune of morning light.

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