Lately, I feel a certain sadness contemplating my species.
Perhaps I’ve been watching too much American television.
Americans seem desperately sad, they need more canaries.
Our canary begins singing in earnest at sunset.
He stands on his hollow coconut composing
spontaneous arias to the vanishing daylight.
He has no idea if he will see the sun rise again.
This lends an extra measure of poignancy to his
operatic solos, and a richness to his trills.
At dawn, he can’t contain his joy — he just has to
let the whole world know how fantastic it is to watch
the sky gradually fill with luminosity once again!
At the fish store, all of the dead fish rest in peace
on a cool bed of ice. It appears that they are
all looking in the exact same direction.
Their little eyes and mouths are fixed in an expression
of awe and wonder, as if they are glimpsing the after world,
where all fish can finally speak their minds out loud.
If we could somehow listen in, we might hear a tale
of how they came down out of the sky long ago
to make their homes in the rivers and seas.
We all came down from the sky — Americans, canaries,
fish, and every part of our floating world — we descended
from above, even though there’s really no “above”.
Our mutual history is a history of light, light modifying itself
into the transient forms of you and me and everything,
whether happy or sad, or just standing in a cage
of light, singing our dear little hearts out.