A Bird is Singing by Carole Martin
Early, before sunrise on this winter morning
I dress, and smile to hear my familiar bird
sing, high in the poplars across the road.
This is an ordinary house; semi-detached
in a suburban street, in a country with enough.
This house, our heart of safety.
The bird sings high and loud and shining.
It sings to my good house, the small trials
which may come for me; it sings of hope.
The bird sings high above the darkness
of celebrations, and terrors, and the dull days.
It sings for me, as I draw back the curtains.
Wherever trees are
birds are singing in the darkness,
for the dawn is coming.