by Michael Dearman

Is it right
To question the singing of a bird
The sweet looping melodies
That ears might have heard
In the bright morning sun
With leaves dripped dew
The bird sings in tree tops
A concert just for you
But the little one doesn’t know you’re watching
It thinks it is alone
You’re still enjoying the music
Just there, on your own
To announce your presence
To break out in applause
Cheering for this opera
Is akin to opening your claws
With bird frightened
In the tops of that tree
It will fly away
That’s how it is for me.