The blue jay grips the branch,
Adjusts his azure coat
And takes an inaudible breath
Before he questions the sun.
“Why do you not speak to me?”
He asks her, as she breaks through
The leaves to touch him gently;
Answering silently as ever before.
She does not her joys convey
In words, so different from the
Wind whose whispers reach him
In the tree where he sleeps
Nor is she like the stream
Whose bubbly anecdotes
Travel up from the soft mud
To amuse those around him
Perhaps she is like the sun
And not another —
Her song is felt inside
And she sings as she knows how