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.
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