Question

poem of a bird

Answer 1

A bird sketches the dawn across open air,
a thin graphite of motion on a pale page,
wing-tips tasting the last thread of night.
It knows the language of up — a grammar of lift,
each feather a syllable, each beat a sentence.

It sings not to fill the air but to carve it,
notes like bright pebbles dropped in a river;
ripples that remember sunlight, wind, the way leaves listen.
Between two breaths it maps the world:
rooftops, rail lines, the small rectangular gardens of people.

It comes to a bare twig and becomes careful —
a quiet thing, a hollow song folded in,
a tiny architecture of hope and bark.
Eggs breathe like unread letters beneath its breast.
When storms sweep the valley, it tightens its claim
and folds the sky away for a moment, safe as a palm.

Then, as if answering an urgent, private drum,
it opens again — the air accepts it without surprise.
There is no ownership in its leaving, only the promise
of return: a curved line drawn free-handed across the morning,
a reminder that somewhere, always, light keeps passing through.