From the rubble of a sound mind
Comes calling the sound of songbirds
Drifting over inhuman air
Like a chorus, like reminders
So everybody stands and listens
One note and then the next
A symphony or a drama --
A comedy, perhaps?
Nevertheless a calm wind persists
Through waves of somber doubt
These birds persist in singing
In flutters and in toe
We look up to find their callers
And see empty trees around
No bird nor instrument
No motive, and not a sound
Is it winter or is it spring
Are the songbirds now listening?
Joined together in silent prayer
Like wardens of our cells
The writer keeps on writing
And the reader carries on as well
The singing takes over
It staggers then it swells
A crescendo of pitch and harmony
Only when non-observed
The writer finds his solace
Alone, in writing of his birds
Sometimes it's hard to hear the birds, when I'm so caught up inside my own head.