All day
I’ve listened to the song
of a single cardinal
ripple stillness
just outside my office window.
An opera in red tux
his throat is a spring
stretching an aria
through the cluttered house
of sound, awakening memories
of events since past.
The timbre enlivens my heart.
I can almost touch
what once was
as it floats between
song and wind. An inflection
so crisp, that I’m convinced
the cardinal sings for more
than to merely texture
the commotion. His tune
incites another gift.
He performs daily,
tireless and without hoarseness,
to make sad hearts flutter.
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