On top of the pines
they speak in tongues
and redress a cycling of days.
They walk upon the sky
and intersect with wings
aflame by the sun.
It is an aviary of prayer
of limitless tone.
I am not alone.
The field is an amphitheater
catching and throwing
the sounds of mourning.
A duet of doves seize the day.
Carpe diem tweaks the dew
and lifts redemption again.
The blackbird’s night song
fades into light.
The rite of spring is singing louder.
Louder than my computer fan.
The blue jays are shouting.
The robins are talking over the fence.
The sparrows and chickadees are speed dialing.
This is the first spring in the country.
The window is cupped open.
My ears are too,
and the sounds send me back
to a dead end street of so much traffic.
Starlings would bounce from shrub to shrub.
Plump orange bellies would bow and pull up breakfast.
I could almost hear baby-blue
eggs cracking.
Oh how I miss my mother brooding over us.
© Gerald Allen Barrett and parentheticallyspeakingin3d, 2012.
Gerald the Writer 