Bird in the tree you are singing to me
as if you know and care that I am here
each note intended to put in my ear
a song. What is alone can be pretty
sharing itself, staccato before the
profound pause and silence still near and far.
Unseen the melody is all you are
bird off on some limb that is budding a
leaf as I write listening and the winds
and other choruses, even the car
screeching its brakes do not startle, just are.
The cat licks the hair on my leg and winds
around a thigh, it too meaning one thing
this sonnet is taking shape while you sing.

Don Yorty, a poet and garden activist, has two published collections of poetry, A Few Swimmers Appear and Poet Laundromat. His novel, What Night Forgets, was published by Herodias Press. Don lives in New York City and keeps a blog at donyorty.com.
*Photo courtesy of Toshihiro Gamo.
Explore Related Content
, , , ,