this bird comes every day and stops at the branch to sing for an hour or two, as if it were absentminded, trying to remember the melody from the day before.
that’s all the bird does. nothing makes it happier.
it wants me to listen to it sing as it leans over to my window. its honey voice’s precision, filtered through the walls of my tiny apartment, lures me outside to drink its song, fluid as air.
bird, spill the tea. what’s the deal, what’s your secret: how can you be so happy? why don’t you need to change windowsills, look for a better gig, find a prettier part of Brooklyn, or want to get away from people, even for just a little while?
teach me how, before you vanish into park woods.
I really haven’t a clue what kind you are, and don’t ask. the moment I begin to ask too much, I’m afraid I will no longer hear your song. I’m afraid I will no longer hear you as you really are.
cookie nieves 
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