Jazz leaks out onto the patio

through sliding glass doors

and mingles with birdsong.

I do not know the names of the birds

 

or an F sharp from a B flat

and though I can count eight shades

of green and six of blue with a glance,

I can’t name them either.

 

What I know is you

reading beside me

your eyes scanning the words,

your mouth closed,

 

its tiny muscles subtly at work

as if you can taste something.

The CD skips. A neighbor’s lawn mower

coughs. Distant traffic noise

 

now a subtext to the music.

You put down your book, stare off

into your inscrutable thoughts

and rise to clear the breakfast dishes.