The new singers land in the chorus
like fledgling birds on the field
after rain and sun have driven
everything up for grabs.
He sings beside me, puzzling
over the unfamiliar sheet music,
finding a note, then losing it;
taking flight, then tumbling to earth.
We live in the heart of the harmony
in our section of the chorus,
and I love this place that he is trying
to learn to inhabit and learn.
I was once a fledgling, dismayed
by the music, frustrated by my feathers,
desperate to become a confident,
competent bird, able to feed myself.
Now, I inhabit this field, the air,
I can stop on a dime, gobble
a grub, stretch a delicious worm,
or sing perfect pitch. So will he.
