As a breath of air fills my lungs,
I hear a bird-cry.
I do not recognize it and think to myself
how good.
Most of my thoughts
spend themselves on people,
on internalizing their rigid delineations,
so that I can say
“this is I”
and believe it.
But this bird I cannot see,
only hear,
is far greater than I could ever be,
as its song is much deeper, much humbler,
than any poem I struggle to write.
I say this because its song is not for me,
its breath not mine,
and no effort is wasted
on my delight.
Its song asks nothing and says nothing,
avoiding the greatest of all follies,
and speaking truth.
For what is truer than a bird being a bird,
and air being air,
and a foolish child misunderstanding both—
calling their combination
“song”.