A bird is singing in the setting sun,
warbler, robin? A small musician,
while Mozart plays and turtle doves call.
Is this happiness, the balance between
the imperatives of existence
and the quiet bliss of golden light,
when nothing sours the blue
or disturbs the drifting music
of birdthroat or tree whisper?
Light spreads like water, silver
and still as moonlight, the tide
rising, and all I can think of
is the magic of old tales and how
they tie us with gossamer threads
to small birds and the stars.