Last night I heard the mockingbird
silver bird beneath a silver moon.
Black and white have a way of turning to gray.
The shadows grow longer and deeper in June.
There in the dark at the edge of the park
sad songs echoing the midnight bell.
Sad bird reminiscing
wonders why his lady's missing
and the shadows remind me of Dantean Hell.
Do bird girls do their bird men wrong
and is this song
a way of hoping, coping with a life alone?
Do we have this thing in common,
oh songbird shaman:
Shadows are longings that cut to the bone.
Silver moon turns to gold
as early morning bells are tolled.
Gold bird languishes beneath a golden ball.
Last night I heard the mockingbird.
This morning the shadows mean nothing at all.