At the lead up to the finale
it was gray one day, bright blue the next.

There were noisy birds
on each day, but he could not see them.

When he looked
for them they were far off,

not right outside the window
as he’d thought.

How odd the birds had become,
he said to himself. Almost as if

they shunned him but kept up
the sound, just in case

they indeed had a purpose
to fill. Almost as if when it was

over they would keep it up as if
there had been no change to anything.

He stepped away from the window,
sadly; he sat and ate toast, sadly;

he drank a cup of mediocre coffee,
sad as all Hades for today’s lack

of promise. It felt different
from yesterday. Tomorrow

or the next day or the next
would likely be the same.

To believe otherwise
would be the same as being

one of those birds outside
singing their insides out uncaring

about fate, predestination,
or what tomorrow might bring:

gray day, blue day, or
something in between.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T