Solstice

After a summer morning rainstorm subsides, I will want to take my time, walk my piece of the city toward where I work, thinking of the first morning, as in the hymn, where also blackbird has spoken (like the first bird).  These birds, in this millionth morning, are so full of themselves, full-throated, diving and arguing or singing those sublime songs god placed in them.

I can't remember whose poster it was, back in my childhood, but someone had that insipid 1970s sentiment prominently displayed, the one about letting go of that bird you love, that innately free bird, who might come back to you if yours or, alternatively, stay gone if not yours (the obvious, painful, necessary default).  As a child I liked the idea of a bird I let go coming back to me.  I felt that lovable.