The Hymn of Raining Birds
It
was
raining
birds that May,
the sun emerging
from behind the maples leafing.
A
path
glimmered
like a stream,
still wet with dew, and
I perched upon the path to wait.
The
dawn,
yellow,
becoming green,
yawning to awake
from the frailty of winter's death
lured
me
toward
love and touch.
But I was alone.
The raining birds might sing or sigh.
