There is the sun and slight morning chill;
There are the mulberries outside the window
ripening, without instruction;
White, green, palest pink, a certain sort-of orange
moving toward red and their
soon-to-be lush darkness.
There are the mocking birds and blue jays
eager among the branches
their choral delights fill the open window,
praise from the uncoached throat;
The silk of ordinary miracles spins.
There is the sun and a slight morning chill. 
