Late Bird
Count me among the noon risers who stumble,
dazed and bad-haired, from the nest midday,
pecking the crazed dirt for half-torn moth,
pear’s white core, severed worm. I’ve never
been one to trill at chink of dawn, to hop,
skip, chirrup before full sun. I’m better
at picking over crumbs, stitching a quilt
from what’s left, remaindered, given up
for gone. Better at betting the careless
will miss the best. Count me among
the nightbirds who sip starlight, a guitar’s
fading strains. Find me where moondust
swirls in streetlamp glow and stray dogs sleep.
What clings to the bone is most sweet.
Copyright © 2026 by Angela Narciso Torres. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 6, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“Inspired by an inversion of Shakespeare’s line from Sonnet 73: ‘Bare ruin’d choirs, where sweet the late birds sang,’ this sonnet is an argument for being the late bird who lives on what’s been left behind. I’ve always been fascinated by old things: books and artifacts from another age, anything analog, vintage, or antique—not just for the stories they hold but also for what new lives might be in them. The poem asks, can beauty and meaning be found in what’s been overlooked, abandoned, or discarded? Perhaps this is why we make poems.”
—Angela Narciso Torres
Angela Narciso Torres
