Memorial Day
Morning birds loose a litany of reasons
to be alive, to be young and tune their own chords
having memorized the sounds of their parents,
blowing an adolescent horn
squawking anointed sound.
In this trumpeting of summer, the young death thing.
Under the tangle of green, remembrance
the uniformed un-done, un-manned, un-ed.
In the wake of death, so much birth. So much birth
In the wakes. Vigiliance. A wake. Awake.