“Your job is to find out what the world is trying to be.”
—William Stafford
Some birds hide in leaves so effectively
you don’t see they’re all around you.
Brown tilted heads, observing human maneuvers
on a sidewalk. Was that a crumb someone threw?
Picking and poking, no fanfare for company,
gray huddle on a branch, blending in.
Attention deeper than a whole day.
Who says, I’ll be a thoughtful bird when I grow up?
Stay humble, blend, belong to all directions.
Fly low, love a shadow. And sing, sing freely,
never let anything get in the way of your singing,
not darkness, not winter,
not the cries of flashier birds, not the silence
that finds you steadfast
pen ready, at the edge of four a.m.
Your day is so wide it will outlive everyone.
It has no roof, no sides.