Maui, Five-thirty A.M.

Maui, Five-thirty A.M.

The same tiny tree frog chirps
perched on the banana leaf above my head.
Birdsong, more insistent by the minute,
loops and pitches well-honed riffs
at a reluctant sun
as breezes whisper
–not through my straw hair
now dense with seven days of salt and sun —
but through the distant palm fronds
that hula, lazy, in the melting grey.

Through the sway, between their tinkling fringe,
I spy a streak of white approaching from the East.
I calmly sip my Kona black and track the light:

Another bullet speeds to Paradise
chock-a-block with harried
flip-flopped, tank-topped,
jet-lagged, jet-sagged
anaemic apparitions, all eager
for a week of hard leisure.

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