Our eyes snap open
into the shards of a shattered night
after sleep nested
on our branch bodies.
Outside our open
bedroom glass, Black-Crowned
Night-Herons
sleep in their familial nest.
While we lie entangled
on our queen bed
in a clean sheet union,
my ears rattle
when a homeless man’s moaning
trounces the papa heron
squawking into a weekend dawn.
Mere feet from the frame
we pay a property
tax to occupy,
when will he return to his rotten nest
down the block!?
Oh his moaning is marring
our Oakland repose.
With our need
for scrambled eggs, you spring
up and wing
across the floor
like a monarch butterfly.
You glide
within our salaried kingdom.