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The Sound of the Nightingale
December 12, 2015
This morning I awoke to the sound of
the nightingale.
I felt something of death within myself.
I was wearing a midnight blue sweater,
which by and by sunk into the bed covers
of the same coloration.
I could hardly breathe.
Birdsong is chaotic and quaint,
unarranged and radiant,
a jazz experiment, in the style of Sun Ra
perhaps; and fittingly presenting itself at sunrise.
One thinks of birds and thinks of spring;
but I love winter’s birds the best,
for it is they who sing
as death surrounds them.
© Brett C., Spartanburg, SC
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