The birds do not sing for us, 

but to each other. Melodic notes 

fall from the treetops 

to the forest floor below, 

where the mice fight the ants 

for the seeds the branches scatter. 

The wren’s song peals through 

the twigs and the twine alike, but 

they cannot carry her voice to a partner who cares. 

It is the beginning of October; 

the birds have fled down the coast, 

and there is no one for her.

But the leaves did carry her desperate plea 

to some inviting ear; a child 

tying her shoelaces on the front doorstep 

hears her tune. It does not pass over her small head 

like it does with the mice. 

The children hear the wren’s cry for companionship, 

and they know that life goes on.