Dave Bonta's poem starts with a small, odd image: the day breaks like a wishbone. The speaker jokes that we're lucky, because the bigger half stays with us, and that half is "darkness." It's a wry, slightly dim kind of optimism, as if dawn only partly wins.
From there the poem moves to a spot beneath an interstate, where traffic makes a "dull interminable thunder." Even here, nature carries on. Leaves fall like a school of salmon-colored fish, the trees stand on scraps of land nobody wants, and a concrete pier becomes "tree enough" for a creeper vine with scarlet leaves and a few fox grapes.
The speaker doesn't complain about the setting. Instead they watch closely and seem quietly delighted, even amused. The last lines, "and now for / a fish crow's / falsetto caw," sound like an announcer introducing a performer. The mood is calm, observant, and gently humorous, finding small beauty and resilience in a neglected, noisy place.