Morning Light

The message every morning is the light
that comes with song of birds:
the robin first,
and then the wren and cardinal.
Doves are perched
in line behind the sparrows.

Night's dark cup fills first with morning song
and then comes light.
Sun doesn't show for minutes.
When depends in part on where you stand.
It's hard to miss.

The mountains are majestic, make first catch,
then trees and, finally, housetops.
New light glints
on paint like hammered gold.
It climbs down eaves,
reflecting back to soffits.

Last or first no longer makes a difference.
Like a bird, hope hunts in shade and sun
for what hope seeks.
It's nothing large
for hope like birds is small.
What's sought may long be hidden,
something not
so easily disproved;

and as for proof,
the light is what we have,
that and the birds
that wake each morning hungry,
full of psalms.
For me,
psalms are enough
when sung by birds.