Through the Window

The sound of birds
Tires on pavement
The cool breath of mid April
Through the window

My lungs too fill with this life
As all creation wipes sleep from crusty eyes
And yawns, stretching frozen ligaments
Toes sprout from beneath winter quilts
Touching cool floor to tender skin

My lungs and this house too exhale
With white steam from black coffee
And melting butter on warm toast
As somewhere a radio speaks 
Of real problems in imaginary lands

Are the birds aware? 
Do they see my movement
As a response to their own
Through the window?