A Little Bird Sings Our Song

author’s note:

When a man hears angels singing
he hears angels singing.
            -- Mary Oliver


A LITTLE BIRD SINGS OUR SONG

Listen to that tree on the corner of the street.
Someone cries from the darkness of the leaves.

No, not someone—a bird

with a tongue like a whip

stings me with its deep-blue nocturnal blues.
But at least now I’m awake.  Now I can hear what I feel.

Our hidden friend
expresses so many emotions
within the limits of its simple melody.

But why would that little bird feel so haunted?

The bird echoes the song my spirit sings.
The bird echoes the song
the whole dizzy hungry human race sings.

I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.
I hear hurt.
I hear anger.
I hear the desire to love and be loved.

I hear your ghost
echoing the purling waters of our Spring.
The ghost asks me:
Do you really want to remember?

And from within, a voice answers:
Did I live that life only to forget?

How could the bird possibly know
the sound of my memories?

I guess at a basic level
my life could sound the same as a bird’s.

The diva agrees
as she sings
in the tree at the corner of the street.

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