The birds are sleeping now,their songs are silent,but their remembrance still stirs my synapsids,
My memory of the morning,but blurred by the day,my artificial light from Faraday’s mind encloses my words.
I try not to fret about what I did or didn’t do,as I did my best,I did my best,I did my best,
Now those birds are in their nests with their sonic vests,with protective crests.
Those intervals of Major 3rd,Perfect 4th,Major 6th,still in my mind,still there,
But the birds cannot do anymore,and they don’t berate themselves,but sleep on the wing.