Sara Nade

Here is that same night bird taking the top of the stage outside the window

Singing light purple notes alone and unashamed of his thin lilting echo

Pitched out and rolling down the quiet village lane over fences

and peeking in windows,

Disturbed 

and proud I would be

if I had feathers to wear tomorrow…

There are no reasons or songs the avian knows

by heart, I listen, still interrupted

under the occasional bassos auto rumbling past, 

the bird usually waits for the concrete to cool

back down

Before the night bird at the window

hops himself back up his perch to scale, 

topping his previous arias and picking at

new notes

The world rises in mourning ovation, 

the inevitable death of knights

or a little light disturbance,

I will get used to it. 



Photo By USFWS Mountain-Prairie [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0) or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.