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.