Words Left Along

Over the mountain, through a canyon beyond the hills, and across a prairie, people in mass and motion, their moving buzz is the thing we call life and living. 

Yet, like a black speck—muted, washed out, displaced, replaced, forgotten, and cast aside—there lies one in the cracks between. 

Like a Songbird, last of his species, his heart grows ever more fractured with every call he cries. 

For this songbird sings a song to an audience who only hears it as ambience. 

Year after year, this last-of-its-species sings his heart out. 

Fueled by hope and fueled by horror, they sing until they cannot. 

People see the songbird, often annoyed by its sound; they further plunge its existence deeper into the hole of uncertainty. 

Nobody knows the fate of this bird, yet over the mountains, through a canyon beyond the hills, and across a prairie, this bird sings his song to an audience of none, while extinction lingers like the shadow on its feet.