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Don O’Cull

Morning on the porch is sung in the yen of the city’s dinkum drums, a medley of distant machines and the prattle from a legion of birds. The sun’s first stretch is an inevitable agreement…an easy green song to whom the early blue jays and the first intentional mopeds have already pledged their day.


We listen through the steam from our coffee, and I can see our tune shine in the latticework of your grin and your wrinkled hair. You touch my knee with your little white foot and tell me, I like it when you say my name. I tell you your name is the wide flower to whom the city sings.


And the proximity in our morning is an ode to the proximity in our city…like lovers who soften waterside walks and smile at the pelicans and cormorants. Here, you move over to me and kiss my temple…a split-second song, soft like a sparrow’s talons on the arm of an oak.