Stars

Sometimes,
when it’s still,
I sing to hear the sound
and wonder if
our dusty-brown
birds do this, too.

Though worksong’s of
great import every day,
there must be time and room
for play.

In this way,
I dream
the creatures call each other
silly names at times,
sole to hear
them echoed back
when humdrum’s sun
climbs.

Further, yet, my theory is:
life keeps an hour
divine
for each and all to game at love.

The proof of this glows
high above earth’s
sorrow-rutted lane,
where all the many million stars
twinkle not
in vain.