by Debora Rorvig
Where skyscrapers reach for the sun
and black and yellow taxi cabs buzz up and down the noisy street
like bumble bees,
Where black Armani suits stroll down sidewalks
with people neatly tucked inside
and blue-collar workers push and shove,
and lift and heave,
building up and tearing down the tenements
she dares to sing.
Above the din and factory smoke
clear and sweet
she calls me from a gnarled elm
from a little patch of worn out grass
just outside my flat.
Though it is only February, she doesn't care
and so I, taken by her optimism
open wide my window and lean upon the sill
just to hear her song.
Perched on a leafless branch almost
obscured by dappled winter-light
tiny, brown and unadorned
she sings and chirps with all her heart,
a heart so tiny it would fit
inside a child's palm...
and yet so large she dares to raise her voice
even in this dismal place,
without a thought that no one may be listening
As the voice of God she lifts me
above the smogged unholy din
and gives me hope that
might have a voice
in this place; in this world.
Small that I am
mayhap there is a grassy patch,
a place for me-
and someone sitting by the sill
who will listen
if I only dare to sing with all my heart
the song He placed within.