The Birds

The birds are in the trees again.

Outside my window.

Bellowing a dull sweet
crull song from their small burning lungs.

Sitting upon the old
creaky withering tree.

Suddenly subdued by the fall.

The birds are waiting.
For what? Who knows,
but if you just listen
with intent.
At the right moment
with need.
At the right moment
and with open ears.

At the right moment.

Close enough.
Long enough.

You may just hear the crisp beautiful words
within the culling fall voices from above,
saying what others have missed and mistaken as cries.

The cries of fall,
which fill a dicing crumbling air with the last bit of life
as the world succumbs to fall.