Tell me the hour

Madrid — photo by author

The city slumps in shrouds of haze
Almond trees, like beacons,
bright with bloom,
call the season into being.
Too soon, call the rooster.
Too late, sighs the wind.
On the streets,
in the cafes,
uneasy, we wonder;
should we linger, or
should we hurry.
Already it feels too late