And the little bird sings.
The temperature plunges, and ice rain,
not nice rain,
turns to rock as it hits the ground;
and the wind blows and the storm pelts,
but the little bird sings
on a fence post,
his assigned post.
Brave against the fury, he sings long and loud against thunder,
unconcerned for next day’s meal
or that next day’s feel might be numbing cold—
colder than now,
colder than Minnesota,
deep cold, and hollow bone cold . . .
and the little bird sings, mouth wide with frosty breath because
it is what he was made for—for songs
in meadows and songs
songs in stillness and songs in fight, and furious songs
in the black storm when promise is far off.
And it is what I was made for as this little bird sings:
*This poem was inspired by a very poignant telling…
View original post 69 more words