Birdsong

She sings a melody,

Her small eyes turned up towards the sun.

Her throat open and her soul free,

She trusts her choice of branch,

She is held.

I can’t help but wonder if her song is always for a purpose,

Or if sometimes she simply loves to express

The profundity of being alive,

Of having the capacity to sing.

As if the point is to hear her own voice amidst the chorus of all others,

And together they, we, make an opera

On this singular, most unique, perhaps ultimately forgettable day.