There's a bird that sings
at 5 o'clock on any given evening
where the sun happens to be out.
He sits in the crepe myrtle out front,
so excited and boisterously
announcing yet another sunset—thank goodness.
I wish I knew just how to thank him.
I do not think that he'd appreciate a poem
as much as I would.
Then again, I could be wrong—
I usually am.