I heard she sang the good song

 It flitters through the cracked window

the first day of spring. 

My chest rises

to the beat of the birds 

waltzing on the swaying branches;

my ears point

as it dives in from both sides, informing me,

“she sings the good song.”

When I woke at dinner time,

the dryer unwrinkling jeans and hoodie,

she stood there—

T-shirt and hip huggers—

finishing the Penguin classic,

before whatever came next.