Every morning the birds sing.
Every morning you wake and place
your feet on the floor.

     Then get dressed,

eat breakfast,

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
and wails.

          Yes yours.

the ones of despair

the birds have them too

feathers flinging from a hawk’s claw

       Yes those.

the kind that dig deep
cling

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

but

we are still here for a long time

the birds are still singing

to the sun

even the rain.

Each morning,

we rise,

plant our feet on the floor

write word

in the sky.