Ghazal

It’s gone, dawn’s rumble of traffic outside.
This morning a lone car’s thrum fades alongside

the bridge. My building’s waking up; Leah’s grinding coffee. 
No elevator whine, no click of doors. We don't go outside.

Across the street, children have escaped, race around in pajamas.
Their mother rounds them up. Shrill voices rise as we pour coffee, decide 

on the balcony. Last night the whole neighbourhood clanged
pots and pans, hobnobbed for two minutes, gratified 

when someone added a trumpet.  And now, the finches are back!
The redhead, bossy fellow, trills and warbles, climbs scales beside

my window. How can such a tiny throat—counterpoint
to sirens keening the sky so brightly-- fill the air outside?