East Baltimore. This wind can wing

and dive

and swoop to squawk at sparrows

on the curb.

In this soil the morning struggles up

to shed cicada skins across the grass,

hollow leaves which queue

along the walls

and rustle to announce their vacancies.

I came here to remember you;

I stay to see this daylight being born.

On its back with flailing legs the dawn

rocks weakly, quivers, and then rolls

to right itself and stumble into flight.

I watch it migrate to the thinning sky.