by Annette Snyckers

the land was thirsty and impatient,
it lay belly-up and waiting.
the pond is brim-full,
fish gulp at the fresh sweetness,
birds sing of the rain
and of bird-news
which I do not understand,
but I believe it must be better
than other news
oozing from our ailing land.

My doors are thrown wide open,
I sit, flooded by the sun —
humming my own strange song,
which I understand no more
than those sung by feathered ones.

For in times of hatred
fluttering on flagpoles,
I cannot imagine why —
but it really does not matter,
today the birds and I,
today we sing.


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