The jumble of song – that’s the sign I wait for.

There’s such a stillness about the canal through

winter, and then this release, like breathing – a delicate

lacework of sound above the quiet.  They don’t

care that I’m here.  There are more important

things to think about than a human with heavy feet.

Nests to build, lives to grow.  It’s comforting, this

world that keeps on going.  New leaves, yellow

and green, catch the shaken song on its way down

and hold it there, thrilling in the life that thrums

from it.  An opera of spring. We’re here, they say,

and the trees are full of our music.