photograph by Jean-Luc Mylayne

We get the blue sky
don’t we,
and the almost leafless
gray branch
and near its center
a red bird
perched, not sure
but probably a warbler,
its small heart
pumping out
a warm aura
and a song
that swells its chest.

What is it 
then that flies inside us
we can’t name
so call beauty?

We’re down here
on the ground.
It’s what we have
to work with

and time
and the fire’s
last click.