by Michael Keshigian

    All day
    I’ve listened to the song
    of a single cardinal

    ripple stillness
    just outside my office window.
    An opera in red tux

    his neck is a spring
    stretching an aria
    through the cluttered house

    of sound, awakening memories
    of events since past.
    The timbre enlivens my heart.

    I can almost touch
    what once was
    as it floats between

    song and wind. An inflection
    so crisp, that I’m convinced
    the cardinal sings for more

    than to merely texture
    the commotion. His tune
    incites another gift.

    He performs daily
    tireless and without hoarseness
    to make sad hearts flutter.

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