The speaker wakes to a sunrise so golden and red that it reminds him of the desert southwest, a landscape he knows mostly from pictures and visits. But he is at home, in a wooded cove full of ordinary birds. The poem lists them one by one, as if counting out a small congregation, and says they are "wagering every note they have." The woodpecker's drumming fills the whole valley like a gambler's dice rattling on bone.
As the light grows, the scene seems to turn inside out. The speaker sees roots underground and feather tips shining, and he imagines the blue of the morning as something inside his own body, a web of veins spread across the globe. His hearing stretches to shrews in their tunnels and newborn bears asleep in their dens. The mood is hushed, wondering and deeply connected. He doesn't need to travel for beauty, because it is already here, and he is part of it. The poem ends with wood smoke drifting low, and the repeated word "blue" lingers like a held breath.