A stormy morning, just outside
of Portland –

the sky contused,
the trees and grass electric
as the wind picks up.

Windows open.

I have known too many
of these mornings,

alone and quiet save for
the disinterested chattering

of birds.

The things with feathers.

And nothing,
nothing is crueler
than hope.

These birds do not sing
to warm a soul,
are unabashed by downpours,
give zero fucks about the storm.

They sing because they are birds.
I hope because I hope.

Simple and unfortunate, especially
on mornings such as these,

alone and quiet as the rain starts
and falters and then starts

again.