The Ancient Modern
Telling Time / Joshua Alan Sturgill
Last night, stepping into sleep,
I thought: tomorrow I’ll wake
ready for important things. But
morning passes again, and I
spend the hours idly scribbling
shallow marks on the world
— like sparrows’ tracks among
fallen oak leaves. I drink a fifth
cup of tea; I listen to the clock
without looking to see the time.
What use am I — except that I
can tell the seasons
by the sparrows’ songs?
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