A redbird in love with late summer
honors
its recording contract with the universe.
It
sings while the sky is still gray,
while
drops of rain still fall
to
form temporary museum pieces,
puddles
reflecting impressionistic scenes
stippled
by the softest of winds
that
ushered in the storm last hour.
I
sit in my open garage at the end of a road
and
listen to the notes seed the air with ideas
of
how the bird thinks the day should proceed.
I
cannot read such music or analyze the score.
I
can only listen, as any patron of the arts,
to
that which transcends time and space
and
yet is present for me now,
sitting
in the woods and hoping that my life
will
contain many more songs
with
hope always the trusted refrain.
I
am old, but my soul does not mind
the
gentle disciple of cleansing rain.
~William Hammett
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