Singing

A titmouse shoots from the metal finial to the peach tree where I stand, hopping closer, branch by branch, until I can meet its curious black eyes and see the blush under its wing, and then, in a voice incongruous with its delicate body, utters several guttural chirps like a toddler raving. It returns to the feeder abruptly, selecting a single seed and then departs, satisfied.

My youngest, waking up in a nest of comforter, calling from the soft dark, Mama, do you want me to sing you a poem about recycling? A disembodied voice, a tiny piece of me warbling from another room, the air thick with the scent of childhood and sleep.... Newspaper and plastic, let's get enthusiastic...

Each sound sweetly startling and perfect. The unexpected is often the most beautiful.