SONGBIRD

I whistle
Even with a worm in my beak;
For happy is the season,
Clear is the sky,
And for me, my beloved
Is waiting in the peach orchard.

I whistle
As I maneuver
Through the warm, summer breeze,
Reaching heights
Where pride and joy
Stand tallest.

I whistle,
And a predator glides by
With fury in its eyes,
With hunger as its instinct.
Survival is the source of its gumption;
The elation of music, the source of mine.

I am a mighty, young fellow
On my wings,
And I never stop whistling.