as birds lay dreaming
it’s three in the morning
having awakened after maybe
three hours rest
walking slowly down the steps
the blue moon filters
into the house from various angles
I command the corner lamp
to power on to level one
wondering what my dear mother would do
I imagine she went for the cabinet
squatting like a catcher
calling her next pitch
the shelf above the refrigerator
is where the spirits live
I blame them for awakening me
settling in on the bay window chair
I reminisce of the thousands of dreams
of flying & talking & singing like a bird
having faced countless perils
perhaps I’d not survived an horrific dive
or was shot out of the clear blue sky
how many times can you possibly die
in a bed of make-believe roses
how many species of birds can you be
march two thousand twenty-three
copyright j matthew waters
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