Trill

by J.D. McGee

---

​First, the sun must not be up, not yet.
Still, there should be an idea of light, east:
a sketch of pink, a dash of yellow but nothing
declarative.  Just the implication of sunrise.

Second, water, to hear like a conch shell 
to the ear, a thrum like someone holding
your hand; and a scent of wetness: it should
smell washed, and new, like the surprise of birth.

Next, there would be a breeze, just a brush
enough to blow no-see-ums away and texture
the water, but not so much to mask the churn
of pilchards, so there is no mystery, only a grasp.

Also, twisted sea grape, coiled buttonwood,
the stately, ragged crowns of palms all ironed
into silhouette against the rising light.  Morning
glories open in blooming sprawl on the ground. 

Arriving at home, you park under the tamarind;
and, clasped to the corded electric wire overhead,
a mockingbird trills thrice then hops once to the left. 

---

J.D. McGee teaches high school literature in South Florida. His poems have appeared in New Ohio Review, Cider Press Review, The Southern Quarterly, and elsewhere. The recipient of several national awards and honors, he is currently an MFA candidate in Creative Writing at Florida Atlantic University.

Read More