WEBVTT

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And a poem called
"Bird Before Dawn,"

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written in Wisconsin in April.

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When the clocks
go forward again,

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the birds get all screwed up and
start singing much too early.

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If you're feeling
lyrical, it's fine.

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If you to get some more sleep,
you don't feel so great.

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It's called "Bird Before Dawn."

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Bird before dawn, bird
before dawn, I hear you.

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Liquid in the dark,
long before the light,

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hear you after
hours of images,

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tethered to the great silence.

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Eyes closed, lips open,
but no music from me.

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And now, though I lie,
a human in a room,

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I'm there in your
throat, in the wet center

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where the notes swell without
words, with merely a man's

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tongue.

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And oh, my musician, my
April chanter, I rise.

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I ride out of the
winter on your song.

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