Two Birds at Dawn

It is February,
and outside a bird sings,
only one,
a mad trill
that echoes
off the quarry walls,
a symphony of one,
unheard
by anyone except
you,
a stranger,
who sings,
more quietly perhaps,
a soft low melody,
equally unheard,
but just
as insistent,
a joy long starved,
long tortured
by silence,
a joy
that greets each new dawn
as if it were
eternity

About this poem

This morning, as I sat at my desk, I could hear a single bird outside. And it got me thinking about how often the only encouragement I have felt for much of this past year, has been from somewhere within, somewhere I can’t describe. My spirit? God? Madness? They are all possible, but they refused, and still refuse to allow me to surrender, even when honestly, that is what I wanted to do.

Tom