Have you ever heard
songs of rain and whirling wind,
duet of chickadee and yowling cat,
the chorus of angry crows in the whistling old willow?
Across the cold gray city
jackhammers preach their special sermons,
and city streets and countryside are everlasting song.
I sing to rain and wind and whispering sunrise,
black crows on black willow limbs,
somber sellers of street food and unwelcome news,
and all the sad, stunned beggars.
I pipe my modest tune.
I sing what I must.
I sing for my life.