Years ago I wrote of a bird, we would sing duets in the garden,
she of pure song, would sing many more notes between do and re, than I,
semitones, twenty-two pitches per octave she would tweet-out sweetly,
while I respectfully played second-fiddle deferring in wonder

O’ how I miss her song, how it broke the air about us gleefully,
stark crystal clear arpeggios against brilliant sky in cold morning
brought harmonics from treetop canopies, birds as birds of a feather,
the world awash in frenetic wonderful cacophonous music

And I merely human, found my place as a voice in the low bass range,
below the birds but above the Earth, Her resonance deep, surrounding
sub basso, the same note in our brains, flat be, unlike tones from heaven,
together we were a joyful chorus through the seasons of one year

Chagall ∞