its luscious, liquid staccato,
spatters the dawn-warmed asphalt,
strikes metallic melodies
from the wire strands
of the window screen.
Moist in the music of silence,
I sit upstairs on my bed
beside the lichen-greened hackberry tree
outside the open window—
immersed this Saturday morning
in meaningless, inconsequential glories.
Copyright Thomas L. Kepler 2009, all rights reserved