Wake-Up Call


Poor Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody,

says the white-throated sparrow

in folk translation, its song quavering

and thin as a letter that might be slid

beneath my bedroom door,telling me to wake up to the day's

allotted favors, enough to stymie

leaping cats and diving hawks.

Just a taste. A few berries from the bush.

A few seeds on the tongue.

A lean song, robbed of the robin's

lushness, the mockingbird's verve,

calling me to join the Peabodies,

to sit up in bed, one more time, and whistle.

By Robert Lowes

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