The fields unplowed, the cars at rest,
no rush to school, no changing shifts,
but as the Earth turns round to face
each post-apocalyptic dawn
a chorus breaks from shore to shore.

No spoken word, nor beat of drum,
nor flute, nor grand orchestral score,
but as the Earth spins into day
the birds all pause to sing in praise
of rain and sky, of egg and nest.

Eagle and wren, pigeon and owl,
crows in the trees, geese on the wing,
each as the Earth slides into light
uplifts their voice in canticle
to moon and sun, the greening world.