This morning, spring brought its predawn chorus:
cacophony of birds, each following its own score.
Tonight it is quiet, as I lie in a dark, warm room,

until a single birdsong drifts in with seasonal breeze.
A mockingbird, I surmise from the medley –
a different call, repeated several times, before the shift

to another melody. Mixed in the repertoire,
I think I hear other sounds – spring peepers, crickets,
a squeaky hinge. I imagine him sitting

on the peak of my neighbor’s roof, delivering
this late news for birds – everything he has heard,
everything he wishes to share, to re-create,

summation of his day, this musical narrative,
this bedtime story, as he flits from tune to tune,
from roof to roof, in search of his own voice.

09/25/2001

Posted on 09/25/2001
Copyright © 2026 Bruce W Niedt