Aubade
a half moon hovers
a quiet observer on a backdrop of blue
I, too, make no sound
as the warm breeze skims my cheek
ruffles the tufted crest
of the nearby cardinal’s cocked head
the birds have long since begun
their conversations
a mourning dove’s cooing to lure a mate
the shrill call of a chickadee
sounding an alarm—hawk overhead
the cardinal’s strong whistle
staking out his territory
their language is not mine
nor do I have wings to help me catch
a column of air
nor hollow bones to render me
almost weightless
and yet this morning
as I leave the moon behind
I try to coax a column of light
to fill my thirsty bones
I watch my spirit start to rise
on this day’s updraft
and I begin to summon this song
to claim the whole wide sky
as my terrain
—Melissa Huff
First published by Gyroscope Review, Fall 2024
