Morning Song
B.N. Graves

Listening to the birds’ morning song
the breeze sways the trees
the cat looks out the window
the kettle steams on the stove
and I feel something like longing

There’s an hour when even the cars are quiet
cicadas signal spring
play their sad song all night
we listen through the open window
sheer white curtains blow in the breeze

The cat likes to sit and look out the window
at the birds in the trees
and the squirrels shuffling through the leaves

I like to sit and look at the cat
while sipping on coffee
and thinking about smoke and gin

I like to sway in the morning
when I write to the sound of birdsong
and the gleam of the morning through a washed gray sky

I like to laugh
in the evening when he comes home
and we pretend like we have some semblance
of normalcy

I think about it
I could be drunk before noon
could sit down at the table and roll one,
smoke and get inspired that way

sometimes your chosen way
isn’t the best way

and tomorrow when we’re still unsure
we will wake up and do the thing
like we do,

not every day is destined for greatness

B.N Graves is hobby writer from Houston, Texas with a strong passion for plants and lazy adventure. Major influences include Charles Bukowski, John Steinbeck, and Jack Kerouac.