some mornings are flat and hard
the sky's machinery
scratches a boy's name
on the side of a thin cloud
gears and levers humble
the loud cries of birds - finches, we
think -
and the softer cries of chamiso
a bit of water plops to a red stone
none of this - we think - has any right
no right at all
to act separately
all the pieces of the morning
should announce their intentions
the sun in particular
should call ahead
then we'd be ready
for the shadow of its great looming
crane
and the heartless stutter
of its childish engine