Bird song is code (a poem)

Sunday, April 13, 2025

Percussion, trombones,
trumpet blasts —
and the doors close.

Retired from our part,
and without instruments,
we become bird song.

Bird song and code,
the impulse and the noise,
the pulse and our ploys
to bend a chirp just so —

to let our neighbors,
our mates and babes know:
we are family
full of code.

Between burps of beauty,
the breath —
forced through the hollow,
a bone,
a box
of our own.

The force of it,
the reach for a sound,
or a hiss
and hum —
the bleeding heart
to share.

Broadcast you,
and for what.
A perch,
a place,
a continuation,

fluttering
into legacy systems.

A flap and hop,
onto the next spot,
another bird,
another bird’s tune —
a machination,

a system with ears
and volition.
Sing along,
pretty robin.

Was it prayer?
Was it pain and want?
What was the first bit
of spoken for?

The words
and whistle.
Tweet away,
you funnel of god,
converted into signal.