Summer's First Day

Summer looks in through my curtained windows
then plays the revenant all morning, in light
quixotic, or unequivocally clear:
a glass dome for the performance art of birds —
their bodies the minims and crotchets they voice:
leaf-shaped rustlers of new foliage.
A time to be busy, create fictions
of order, in readiness for that raft
of hot and too-hot days — as yet far out
but slowly heading this way over peaks
caped with avalanche white: promising
a hazily foreshortened view, suspension
from time's arithmetic, a holiday for
a bookkeeper of the infinite.