Someone Passes at 8 a.m. and the Birds Do Not Sing

Today, someone will die at eight o’clock in the morning— 
and someone who heard of their passing, 
but did not witness it, 
will swear the birds stopped singing.

They will also give in to the lie—
that it was raining, 
slightly, imperceptibly, 
raining in the words of James Joyce
 “over the living and the dead.”

The rain rains. 
Those who stay indoors 
will not feel it— 
only see it 
through glass.

They will swear the petrichor 
smelled “like sheets off the clothesline,”
 like “sunshine,” 
exposing the romantic fallacy 
that everyone with sheets 
dries them on clotheslines 
and not in dryers.

And that if you are smelling true sunshine— 
you are too close to the sun. 
You are being burned 
to a crisp.

Birds do not find their voices
when we mourn.
They do not sing of hope,
or of what waits
at the end of their life.

Neither is birdsong 
practice to get
the tone 
just right—
as perfect 
as sunrise.  
 
Birds sing
to mate or warn.

The perfect tune
ensures survival.

The imperfect—
a blur of wings,
battle,
death.

Our grief
means nothing
to them.

Wind and rain 
trickling off leaves
praise no one—

Just add 
more water 
to a flood 
or 
stop 
a drought.

Grief does not praise.
It does not repair.
It does not wait.

It continues
until it doesn’t.