Night’s a good time to work: quiet.
Around one I stop, check
the dogs, the locks, the lights.

My bedside lamp rouses
the mockingbird that waits
in a maple across the street.

Ten nights I’ve heard him, subdued
but steadfast, calling the female
he nests with every year.

Nine nights, I’ve slept while
he kept vigil for her alone.
By habit he recites his life list
like a prayer.

This dawn they greet each other,
whistling “Whew, whew.”
This dawn I sing along.