The Yale Review

1 8 Y C H A N G I N G O F T H E G U A R D T I M O T H Y S T E E L E Prior to sunrise, as it’s growing light, Nocturnal birds relay The burden of their vocal arts To their diurnal counterparts. An owl hoots as a coda to the night; A finch chirps as a prelude to the day. It is as if the birds, wings notwithstanding, Are passing a baton. They make me think, as they converse, Of when my mother was a nurse: Each morning, as the night shift was disbanding, The day shift at her hospital came on. Our breakfasts fit whichever shift she drew. By an unspoken rule, Leaving for work or coming from it She held a little family summit. (We kids, the instant she excused us, flew Out of the kitchen to prepare for school.) I liked the way the shifts aligned, the flow And order they created. While the white dress all nurses wore Expressed their brisk esprit de corps, Their caps had di√erent designs to show The colleges from which they’d graduated. 1 9 R Listening to the birds, I can’t infer Which schools they went to. Still, Like sensitively trained musicians, They’re good at managing transitions, Just as my mother and her colleagues were In looking after the infirm and ill. So though it is a signal to a mate Most birds send through the air – Or else a claim to territory – Their chorus seems to tell a story Of former mornings and to correlate The continuities of song and care. ...