Their voices reverberate through the trees—
a spring-and-summer choir:
the chirps,
the chatter,
the twills,
the whistles,
the warble
the mournful coos
then the owl hoo—
closing out the day.
Language. Song.

And I—illiterate to their speech—
The meaning escapes me.
I do not know what they say,
only that they are saying
something.
Only the stark cry of warning
breaks through to my understanding—
when the stalking hawk casts its shadow
Alarm! Alarm!
that meaning explicit
And then—
silence.
(Not for long.)
They regather their song.

Why do they sing?

I eavesdrop on their conversations,
threading fragments into guesses.
No grammar, no translation—
all eludes me.
I listen from the outside.
And yet—
my heart tilts toward them.

Their music flows inward
and claims me outward,
like a string vibrating
to a distant chord—
From a forgotten tune.

Still—when they sing,
my heart lifts
without reason.
It rises
as if it remembers
something I had left behind.

They stitch the morning with praise—
unbidden, unshaken.
They lift their voices.

Do they understand each other?
Or, like us, only their own kin?
Does it matter?
Still—they sing.
Why do they sing?

Their music stirs the branches
of a childhood I once lived—
a garden long left behind.
And still,
one I ache for

And why—
Do they sing?

But why—
why don’t I?

My voice hides behind thought,
tangled in silence.
In self-censure.
I—who have words
but no song.
I—who do not speak,
and do not dare to soar.

But they—
they keep singing,
as if the world
has not worn them.

Is there still time
to croak one note
through a parched throat?

There was a time—wasn’t there?—
when I sang, too.
Before silence settled in,
soft as dust
on a crushed, shushed instrument.

Let me recover
this forgotten tool—
to voice joy,
to voice contentment,
to free the soul.

To join voice with voice,
content to express—
not speech,
not sorrow—
just a note:
of life
half-formed,
half-remembered,
rising.

Let my song
unite
with theirs.

Originally written: 5/20-5/22/2025, expanded 7/31-8/2/2025