The Bul Bul

The birds did not waken me this morning. They play in the tree outside the patio, A tall tree Four stories high. I can see past it to the rest of the city Should I so wish. The birds come with song as the sun rises And shines on the trees of Singapore Tees that are surrounded by boxes filled with people In this crowded place. There are two. Yellow wings. The bul bul. An ugly name for creatures of such beauty. They come every morning And sing Their song cuts through the dull throb of the traffic inexorably grinding by Two worlds colliding. Only one will win. They cling to the whipping branches as the monsoon winds whip And they disappear when the rains fall. As they have done this morning And my day is incomplete.