Still dark. <br />The unknown bird sits on his usual branch. <br />The little dog next door barks in his sleep <br />inquiringly, just once. <br />Perhaps in his sleep, too, the bird inquires <br />once or twice, quavering. <br />Questions---if that is what they are--- <br />answered directly, simply, <br />by day itself. <br /> <br />Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; <br />gray light streaking each bare branch, <br />each single twig, along one side, <br />making another tree, of glassy veins... <br />The bird still sits there. Now he seems to yawn. <br /> <br />The little black dog runs in his yard. <br />His owner's voice arises, stern, <br />"You ought to be ashamed!" <br />What has he done? <br />He bounces cheerfully up and down; <br />he rushes in circles in the fallen leaves. <br /> <br />Obviously, he has no sense of shame. <br />He and the bird know everything is answered, <br />all taken care of, <br />no need to ask again. <br />---Yesterday brought to today so lightly! <br />(A yesterday I find almost impossible to lift.)<br /><br />Elizabeth Bishop<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/five-flights-up/
