From the shadows of pregnant trees
the songbird sings his song,
a trilling chord in the sultry afternoon.

Sunlight dances on the winding path.
Far away, the familiar hut stoops in silence.
I quicken my pace,
seeing above the horizon
gray clouds rolling in.

He stops as I pass under him,
going faster still.

I look up and say,
what do songbirds do
in afternoons like this?

Tien Tran