To begin with, the birds.
I step outside
and straight into a love affair,
the birds
arriving to the morning
with hearts
and throats
unzipped,
sweet talking the day,
owing nothing
but the song of
I am here.
To begin with, the birds.
I walk up the path,
their lifting songs
flung outward on the breeze
by the fanning,
multicoloured skirts
of the inlet, the mountains
and the trees,
clapping with delight,
an invitation
to slip between the names
inherited
And those I’ve given myself.
To begin, with the birds.
My eyes are closed,
their song a lengthening
of my spine,
a levitation of my feet,
a smile that appears without thought
or effort,
a quietening of all the things
that tell you
you are something
other than this,
a reminder that
your song is welcome here,
the only point being
for you to sing it.
This is my practice.
This is my practice.
This is my practice.
To begin with, the birds.
