Every morning the birds sing.
Every morning you wake and place
your feet on the floor.
Then get dressed,
Every morning the same actions. Pushing along
the treadmill, telling yourself that everything is going well,
you are turning a corner.
Meanwhile you know
the birds aren’t singing to you,
they are calling to the sun
the faithful one
you are merely a passerby
as they are
you are a blip of a few decades
the sun has warmed your kind before,
has listened to birdsong
the ones of despair
the birds have them too
feathers flinging from a hawk’s claw
the kind that dig deep
no matter how much sunlight you soak in
how many times you walk that steep road
shuffle the heavy wheat sheaf on your back
You want to end this now?
You can stop reading
we are still here for a long time
the birds are still singing
to the sun
even the rain.
plant our feet on the floor
in the sky.