if in the middle of the night you hear the singing of a bird.

i censor my voice, alot.

if I was born a bird,

I still walk the hour to where I'm going,

instead of flying in the blink of a moment.

what I say,

I say truly.

it is a risk, vast and small.

a gift, to the wings that ache to feel wind.

once upon a time,

and sometimes, now,

these precious flowers were crushed into a purple bruise

and became the possibility

of how I might die

one day.

to sing out now,

all the notes

and colored tones,

is a blind step into a stream of cars, trusting

that whatever will come,

will come.