I cannot see the bird that sings
Only hear its tune,
threaded into the quiet.
It comes at dawn
a soft call to the sun,
a hymn to light,
then silence.
It retreats.
Not for fear,
but for fullness.
Its work is done.
And in the hush that follows,
I remember:
Creation does not exist to be seen.
It exists to be true.
The bird sings not for applause,
but because it must.
Its throat was built for song
Its feathers for flight
Only the fools question
why?
