The Little Bird

The Little Bird

a little bird sat on a branch,
so quiet and so still,
he tilted his head and looked at me,
as if he knew my will.

he had no words to tell me,
no stories from the sky,
but something in his gentle eyes
said, you’re not alone tonight.

he fluttered once, then took to wing,
and disappeared from sight,
but left behind a tiny song
to carry through the night.

he flew above the rooftops,
where chimney smoke curled high,
then danced among the clouds
beneath the evening sky.

he knew the secret places
where lonely people go,
where quiet hearts remember
the things they cannot show.

he rested on a hedgerow,
and listened to the rain,
then shook his little feathers
and took to wing again.

perhaps he carried wishes
from every heart below,
and scattered them like feathers
wherever he would go.

perhaps tomorrow morning
he’ll come back to my tree,
and sing the same sweet little song
he left behind for me.

so if you see a small bird
when evening turns to blue,
look closely for a moment
he might be looking for you.