This little bird sang 

from time to time

just outside our

window; he must

have been nestled

in the giant Afghan

pine that towers

over our house,

but I could not see

him when I looked

out, his song interrupted

when I moved the curtain,

he longed to be heard

but cared not to be seen,

that sweet chirping voice

behind the scenes

giving out without

receiving any accolades,

beauty without ego

sharing a simple gift

because he was made

to sing.

—C.L. Fisher, May 2021

Unless otherwise indicated, all content, including writing and images, are the work of C.L. Fisher and may not be copied, used, or distributed without permission.

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