As inspired by Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself:
The scurried shuffle & whisper of the squirrel’s feet is accompanied by a clicking chirp
& the exhale of morning
as a feathery tail brushes against her dewy heartstrings.
Rock faces play at nervous chatter—
shifting rocks break the reverent mountain silence
like giggling teenagers.
All across the city
different decibels of pish-tlick-click-and-clack
are pushed from their respective keyboards
with hands reluctant, fervent & uninspired.
At 3 o’clock on a Wednesday morning
someone coughs and the stick of incense begins to ash,
resulting in a small, unnamable sound,
perceptible only over the sound of steam rising from my tea.