The midnight hour,
I hear him.
Evidently, his song
isn’t convincing during the daylight,
so in the dark moments of a new day,
he sings his repertoire
amid no competition.
Not only one night—
several nights in a row
now,
about the same time.
Though I am awakened from sleep,
I smile and listen awhile.
I like him,
but that doesn’t matter to him;
he’s singing for a partner.

Sunday afternoon,
on the porch
in an unseasonably cool,
soft breeze,
she (I think—younger,
lighter gray, almost beige)
flies to the closest branch
to where I sit.
This happens during
a rare and luxurious
Sabbath study time
when I am particularly
trying to grasp
our Oneness.
So I ask,
Mockingbird,
“Why?”
Why have you landed right here
next to me
in this moment?
Is there a reason?
Is it sheer coincidence?
The answer came
from within me:
“Somehow, she shows me my true self.”
How funny!
I’ve always thought of the mockingbird
as,
well, mocking.
And though I love the outrageous boldness,
the beauty,
of their repertoire,
I’ve sometimes felt a little sad for them—
that they sing everyone else’s song
rather than their own.
Perhaps,
I will see their singing
differently
now.
Perhaps, they’re doing us all
a service—broadcasting
everyone’s
truest self
for we who tend not to see
that.

Monday afternoon,
as I walk from barn
to porch,
overhead,
she? he? flies.
I see the white patch
on the underside of the wings.
And I hear this song:
“Sister. Sister. Sister.”

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