A bird sang outside my window last night.
In the deep darkness, with mist circling
the trees and the blades of grass
tasting dew... a bird sang outside my window.
He sang loud and long, proud of his voice,
as if it was morning as if he was happy, as if life was pleasant.
I went into the wet grass white socks cold and damp to find him,
to see him to ask why he sung so. But he was not real.
He had no form though his song remained bright in the night air.
I called to him to explain his song, to tell me of his happiness.
Happiness that caused him to sing at night.
But he had no form, no shape, no reality,
save this song of happiness that penetrated the misty darkness,
caused tears to soak my eyes.
H. Dart Humeston
Every Hour
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