My backyard sings all long-day long. I hear it early, before the first birds twitter, even before the misaligned rooster, full of himself at any hour of day, crowing to the open sky as if Rapunzel in a golden-high turret tower. It’s nothing special-this yard-but it still finds itself unable to keep quiet, to hush-down it’s simple presence. The mud worn lawn where tires have torn, the built-up box full of hopes planted, the fence line bedecked in window frames shining back the morning light; all of it, singing, as though grace were coffee with cream in two hands cupped, and the view out one kitchen window.