The Bird Sings for Me
Donald P. GoodmanVersion 1.0,
The bird who sits upon the bough sings all his songs for me; the chirping from his yellow beak, the plumage that I see, the talons delicately curl'd around his wooden seat, all came to be so I, right now, would chance this bird to see.
The buds which spring from his thin bough, which brought him to this place; the rain which fell upon the soul which this tree's roots embrace; the very light that shines upon these branches from the sun; all here for me to see and know; and I'm the only one.
All time and space and stone and life have pointed to this now, this single moment I enjoy, this bird upon his bough; for me, and all, the world still turns; the bird still sings his song; yet heedless of my presence, soon he flits and flies along.