The whirling fan, the silence of the morning

The whirling fan, the silence of the morning,
when the trees are waking up from their dreams,
is broken by a sneeze. The effusive steam
is rising from the bayou, rising and turning

through the leaves of oaks. The marsh is burning
in the distance, I mix the coffee with cream
and caramel. Her thigh is stretching the seam
of the elastic jeans, a thunderstorm warning

moves across the television screen. The third
of the month, or my third true love is shaking
her body in the darkness. I started to hear

the birds wake up, her sighs, the rattlesnake
move in the tall grass. She is the songbird
that makes the trees and skies and clouds awake.