There is fog before dawn
and dew on the lawn of the Capitol
that is gone when most eyes
are propped open against their will.
This is the hour of secrets.
I am invited by crickets
and encouraged by the practice
of enthusiastic birds.
Exhaust fumes dim the swollen moon
and the birds retrieve their songs
from airwaves too full with everything.
The waking world stakes its claim.
I mind my peace and quiet best
when my mouth is a muted bell
and my ears are the handles
of an empty urn.