By: Trina Gaynon
Mornings like these, I open Every portal to fresh air and birdsong, The clanging of the trains too distant To reach me indoors.
Out on the patio, until delivery trucks Arrive, diesel fumes can’t reach me. Neighbors fry samosa, and curries Waft down to me.
It’s possible to forget the marsh That surrounds us, where coyotes And rats, deer and snakes, left paths Across grasses.
Coyotes live in retreat from concrete And cars. Rats thrive in crawlspaces. Deer are gone. Snakes are few. Hummingbirds flourish.
Birds begin their songs earlier And sing deeper into the night, No competition to the hum Of suburban life.
Trina Gaynon's poems have recently appeared in Apple Valley Review, Mojave River Review, 45th Parallel, and the anthology Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California. Her chapbook The Alphabet of Romance is available at Finishing Line Press. She volunteered with afterschool tutoring, ESL literacy programs, and WriteGirl in California. Relocating to Oregon, she currently leads a group of poetry readers at the local Senior Studies Institute.
Artist statement for "Aubade":
"Aubade" describes the changes around me after a move from a downtown high-rise to a suburban townhouse in a wooded marsh. The poem tracks each morning's transition from indoors to the outside world.
Our row of units backs on another. So we, to my delight, share freely in the neighbors' lives through open windows and patio sliders. On fine mornings I write out on the patio and soak it all in.
On post-breakfast walks it becomes obvious that we also share our space with territorial wildlife. Our neighborhood jay squawks several times a day at invaders. A small snake goes into spasms as the dog and I walk by. In this liminal space, some animals thrive, some make subdued adjustments, some leave. The hum of humanity persists.