Louder on full moon nights, the street
wakes up. Highway whine sharpens its axis.
Train whistles whip the wind to speed.
Dogs bark longer louder faster. The couple
on the corner argue more with words
and less with fists, finally. Unmuzzled,
a motorcycle wraps up the banging pile driver
breaking concrete beneath the overpass,
and inside all that clamor, the steady tick-tock
of a clock with a spring that needs daily winding
and rings as loud as a firetruck if the alarm is set.
For now, my alarm is the cherry tree, its pink bloom
washed white by the early February moon.
This spring, one spring, come too soon.