New Year’s Day
A sort of cantileña – or a sketch
of some song that has not been written – in
the January air. I cannot speak
to what bird has begun to sing, but each
trill and cadenza thrills me. At about
the time the sun lifts in the East, and those
who rise to greet the dawn are making breakfast,
the first birds stir. Now there are those who wend
their way through blue air, opening their wings
to pulse across the heavens; there are others
who choose to sing, and from their singing throats
comes melody. It breaks and scatters, like
a rainfall hitting foliage, or like
an army in defeat. But there is glory
in each raw note; it is a testament
to how this silent planet can unloose
its fetters, and reclaim its voice. The language
escapes my ken. But it is fresh as dew
in my contorted ear, and I begin
to be someone quite different. I might
grow wings yet and take flight myself. I might
yet sing and not be understood. The sun
is looking through my window, it is morning.
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