The Whistler

Well before the sun appears

in the dark

in the dew

in the quiet of pre-dawn

I hear a man whistling

a happy tune

as it echoes off the ancient walls.

Who whistles,

I think as I lay in bed,

at such a time of day?

But the happy song

he whistles that morn

blows my question away.

I smile and listen as he makes his way

from bin to bin to bin,

marvelling at his utter joy

for the simple job he’s in.

If only all of us could feel

the happy this fellow seems

each morning that he puckers his lips

and starts his day with a tune.