In The Morning, We're Ready

The first warm Wednesday.
It's early still.
The Sun reaches arms in through closed windows.
Wide bands of antique air.
Stand in the beam, you can see.
Everyone is out there.
In the world of fuzz, of fade, of flowing warmth.
Everyone is ready.

The Tree is wearing his aura.
He's stretched it carefully over each limb, so as not to tear.
He is resting, recharging.
Ready to dance again when The Wind starts up her music.

He is The Dog's keeper by day.
The Dog stands at attention at the top of his worn brown circle
Ready to ask.
He asks everyone, every passerby,
If they, too, are really, really, really, really excited.
It is Wednesday, after all.

The Apartment bows her head and arches her spine.
See how carefully she cradles her children.
Somalian, black, white, Mexican, all her own.
She absorbs the direct blow of The Sun
On her charred back
So she can make sure each of her children inside gets their share.

The Cars line both sides of the black river of Civilized Man.
They feel the trickle of melt under their fat rubber toes
And try not to squirm.
They are busy watching, ever diligent.
They lock arms and keep The Children back
Safely out of the rush of The River
While they wait to carry their own downstream.

The Dog asks another passer below.
They don't answer.
They never do.
I finally open the window and lean out.
The warm air covers my face and arms.
The Tree, The Apartment, The Cars, The Dog.
They all look up at the sound.
 "I am!"