Steady Tune

The bird that nests outside my bedroom window
sings her song in the morning to wake me,

always.

I hear her call in the deepest of dreams,

finding me like distant bagpipes

that call the sheep down

from grassy hills.

She even sang that one morning

when I saw her nest was empty

and eggshells were scattered

and the stray cat

with bloodied mouth

and full belly

slipped away behind some trees.

She sang on that rainy day too

when I last saw her - 

as the heavy drops tore her home

twig by twig,

she chirped that same steady tune

like the violinists who kept playing

as the Titanic went down -

to no particular listener,

for a reason not altogether clear - 

and when she flew away,

she left nothing behind.