Requiem for a dream

I miss the small horned bird –
Once perched outside my window at dusk,
head cocked slightly in anticipation and courting expectation
would flutter his tiny stature as if to clear his throat.
Leaves move with the wind yet the trees speak not this night
as the song at my sill is sullen and soulless
and I think of all he intended
- To be.

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2009