Still Here - Sept 13 2026

 

Still Here

Sept 13 2026



Why do we say sing?

I don’t mean the co-conspirator

informing on his buddies,

or the supplicant

in exchange for his supper.

And not the fat lady

we’re waiting to hear.

I mean birds,

who call and vocalize,

but do not sing for joy

or to feel uplifted.

Who warble, trill, and chirp

crow, cheep, and coo,

but do not invent silly tunes

or serenade,

sing arias

or gather to harmonize.

There are no jingles or protest songs

spirituals

or professions of love,

and little 

we haven’t heard before.

And while they may call with all they have

don’t sing from the heart.

Rather, it’s all about territory

and showing-off,

attracting a mate

asserting dominance; 

instrumental songs

that aren’t lacking just in words.

But, as in everything, we insist on seeing ourselves.

Misread nature

not as tooth and claw

but music to our ears

  — beauty, for beauty’s sake

at any cost.

Yet still, the bird on my roof 

sings in its solitude

when all the others have gone. 

The same few notes

over and over

on the crisp fall air;

the outlier

who doesn’t seem to know

that soon winter will come

and it’s time to go.

I listen to its plaintive song

and feel something unexpected. 

Is this the caged canary

that sings compulsively

just for the sake of it?

Or does it sing

because the sound is pleasing

in and of itself?

Simply sing

to be reassured

that it’s still here?