Bird Song

The air is clean,

quiet,

as if this place

were a city of the dead.

 

If it were not

for the sounds of birds,

proclaiming the coming

of the morning,

the post-apocalyptic beauty

of this suburban calm,

would hold a sinister promise.

 

It may still.

 

Though there is no chaos

in the street,

and the scene is one

of idyllic prosperity;

from my front window,

it is too quiet,

and whispers of fear

punctuate the silence,

in the spaces,

between the songs of the birds.

 

A new season is coming.

A season of tribulation.

Is this just the calm

before the storm?

 

 

HG – 2020