“birdwing dawn”
Birds singing in the dark — Rainy dawn.
( ~Jack Kerouac)
Streetlamps smudging into the early grey,
wet pavement catching the hiss of tyres,
awnings dripping in slow ticks,
the district still unsure of footing,
caught between last night’s residue
and whatever the day intends next.
A siren cuts through the block without warning,
its sharp rise scraping the hour open.
Small feathered throats working before the light,
raw utterance rising through the damp hour,
rough‑cut bursts flung into the stillness,
a wandering cadence with no audience,
only the drive to stay alive
while the city holds back.
Your shoes sink into the morning’s sludge,
cold grit pushing against the sole.
Then the sky loosens.
Light pushes through the damp edge,
the hour tipping forward in one clean move,
and their voices keep cutting through the dim,
opening the morning
with nothing but breath and wing
—and above them, a hawk’s shadow glides once,
leaving the rest to unfold beyond the frame.
.
