a yell toward the wetlands will echo
through the trees and back toward the
voice which freed it. it will do nothing
to change the time it takes the sun
to rise. the birds, startled, will sing
in a way that is both peaceful and
haunting, and the light will slink up
the trees, then through the bedroom
window where a restless heart will
admit that the sunrise heals no better
than a sleepless evening spent
waiting.
alexandra cannon (Pittsburgh, PA, 1988)
