The Tires of Day
From somewhere in the woods, a bird is calling.
Its runs and trills repeat like morning rain.
The sun’s not up, although the Moon is falling
from its high perch behind the Earth again.
It’s almost dawn. Indoors, a clock is ticking:
the traffic’s thin, I hear its every stroke.
That lone bird on the branch is gently kicking
the tires of day. It’s done so since it woke.
Its runs and trills repeat like morning rain.
The sun’s not up, although the Moon is falling
from its high perch behind the Earth again.
It’s almost dawn. Indoors, a clock is ticking:
the traffic’s thin, I hear its every stroke.
That lone bird on the branch is gently kicking
the tires of day. It’s done so since it woke.
This poem is copyright (©) John Claiborne Isbell 2024
About the Writer
John Claiborne Isbell
John is a teacher of other languages, French and German in particular. He has taught people aged five to sixty-five over the years, and is currently living with his wife Margarita in Paris, where he enjoys asking questions of the people he meets.
