Scope of it

Some lament 

Warbling out of me in bird song

As the wind starts to settle itself

and the Sun is shifting its angle-

Contorting in slow, diagonal positions-

A gentle descent.

My Notes held at length,

Letting the sound do the lord’s work.

My grief in the pleasant murmurings of the later afternoon.

Throwing passing swipes at the still branches of the trees

Swirling around the crowns of long shadows

Trillings stir from my crumpled frame’s rasping song box,

Pushing notes 

Into existence

Becoming a melody

Pitched into the air and echoing back from the other mournful aviaries,

Sobbed into music,

clipping the stillness

as the sun says it’s goodbye

and the song becomes a symphony 

in the darkness.