What we call morning
gleams down the throat
of this purple beauty,

as if lit from within,
opening its larynx so
its vocal cords can

sing the day awake,
which I’ve gotten up
and outside to see,

unusually, not
expecting this glow,
or the sound of

the windless back
yard—a single bird
tossing its trill

to this spot, giving
voice to the glory
of the morning.