Sometimes, still,
I sing to hear the sound
and wonder if
our dusty-brown
birds do this, too.
Though worksong’s of
utmost import every day,
I’m sure birds also
play.
I’m certain they
might call each other
silly names at times,
sole to hear an
echo back
as summer’s sun
climbs.
Further, yet, my theory is:
life keeps an hour divine
to step aside
and game at love.
The proof of this glows
high above
home’s often sorrowed lane,
where all the million stars
remain,
patient until eventide
allows a twinkled shine.
Robert On The Air 