Do birds have little bird words for us? Do they have words for the things that we make and do and love? This chirp means "wall", this tweet means "trust", that squawk means "pier". Will the bird songs tell our stories long after we're too exhausted to sing anymore? The robin at my window tells me that they fell in love, but could never touch. If they spoke their love aloud, they would be struck motionless in the purity of the moment, and would topple from the Earth as it goes on spinning wildly. The pigeons that roost on my windowsill tell me of parted lovers growing lonely, growing cold.
My body is the nest of my bird-soul, restless and flying, soaring. My ribs are the nest of my bird-heart, restless and loving, pounding. This world is the nest of my bird-dreams,
serene,
transcendent.
And do all those people down there have words for me? Can they coin words for all that I make and do and love?
Who will tell my story when I'm too exhausted to sing?
One day, after I have given my self to the world fully, I will give my body to the earth, and it will be distributed into the birds that sing on your windowsill. And those birds will have words for all that you make and do and love.