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.

 

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