Changing of the Guard

Timothy Steele

Prior to sunrise, as it's growing light,

Nocturnal birds relay

The burden of their vocal arts

To their diurnal counterparts.

An owl hoots as a coda to the night;

A finch chirps as a prelude to the day.

It is as if the birds, wings notwithstanding,

Are passing a baton.

They make me think, as they converse,

Of when my mother was a nurse:

Each morning, as the night shift was disbanding,

The day shift at her hospital came on.

Our breakfasts fit whichever shift she drew.

By an unspoken rule,

Leaving for work or coming from it

She held a little family summit.

(We kids, the instant she excused us, flew

Out of the kitchen to prepare for school.)

I liked the way the shifts aligned, the flow

And order they created.

While the white dress all nurses wore

Expressed their brisk esprit de corps,

Their caps had different designs to show

The colleges from which they'd graduated.

Listening to the birds, I can't infer

Which schools they went to. Still,

Like sensitively trained musicians,

They're good at managing transitions,

Just as my mother and her colleagues were

In looking after the infirm and ill.

So though it is a signal to a mate

Most birds send through the air --

Or else a claim to territory --

Their chorus seems to tell a story

Of former mornings and to correlate

The continuities of song and care.