Clearfield Review, 2009
Nothing like the lark,
My morning bird is fiery and fearsome and fierce.
No honey sweet melody his,
No trilling concertos.
No grace.
Each a.m. at six
He dips in for landing.
Even through the glass
I hear him scratching on the sill.
His warm-up starts slow
Metallic squeal begins
Then moves to madness.
My body is nails on a chalkboard
Etching a jaw ache
As teeth grind through song.