Bits of early morning traffic noise, bird chirps, one droning plane,
Too sleepy to even think of saying
Leave me alone,
But I am up and could read, so do,
Frightful pain, graphic deaths,
Give me a break.
Rise to open the window, gray here, but eastward quite a sight:
The low sun above the Berkeley hills,
Half a bright ball complete with, of all things,
Sun borne spokes on a golden wheel,
Rolling down the line.
I bet the sea beyond the western gate
Is wine dark too, for if this sun is here right now,
–by Ken McKeon