When the thaw loosens the fist of the yard
and last year’s leaves exhale their loam,
he steps out in his red vest—
a small, declarative sunrise
stitched to a brown back.
He is not shy about morning.
From the topmost branch
he pours his bright, fluted syllables
into the blue cup of air—
cheerily, cheer up, cheerily—
as if he were ringing the house awake.
Then to the grass, head cocked,
one dark bead of an eye
listening for the thin handwriting
of a worm beneath the page of earth.
A quick stitch of beak,
a silver thread drawn up and swallowed.
Rain pleases him.
He runs between pearls,
measures the lawn in brisk diagonals,
tugs the damp from the day
like ribbon from a gift.
By afternoon he is all industry—
mud on his bill, straw in his mouth,
architect of a cup cradled in forks of maple.
Four blue promises lie within,
sky-colored, freckled with hope.
At dusk he returns to the high limb,
red vest dimming to ember.
He sings again, not to start the sun
but to stitch it closed—
a seam of sound along the hem of dark.
And in the night’s cool pocket
he tucks his small, warm heart,
ready to flare at first light,
a bright coal under feathers,
waiting to call the world back.