A morning as still as death
covered in heavy white shroud
lackluster hum of dying crickets
occasional word from the neighbor’s
chickens broken finally by the
persistent song of one fully living
cardinal telling his real story
to whomever will listen hoping
for whatever it is cardinals hope for
if hope is what they do contrary to
what I am told with a shake of the
head, oh no, birds do not have a
thing in them called Hope.
Only humans pursue such folly.
