Crows screech,
black robes beating
against a diffuse grey sky.
In a breath of quiet
a new sound,
clear and bright,
trills from my laurel bush,
and a somber blue jay
hops
from branch to delicate branch
testing his morning legs.
His voice, more poignant
because it is alone,
and sweeter
by its sole performance.
Sweeter still
by the gentle frame of my memory
as I recall
the cascade of notes
that greeted me
because I
had decided
to listen.