THIS Land
THIS Land
A furnace running…
The sounds of traffic begun.
Outside the window
a feathered soul sits upon a branch.
Perched like an opera singer
held in a stage of towering trees,
there is no warm-up.
It means ‘nothing’ to the little
bird if anyone is or is
not listening.
Her song ‘breaks’ before
the dawn’s rising,
pausing…quietly I listen
becoming the harmony
intertwined in THIS
land of the living.
Lovely