The Ancient Modern
I Am Like The Birds / Joshua Alan Sturgill
I, too, am always uncovering
origins. For instance, just
this morning I found myself
humming a tune
I’d never heard before.
It felt somewhat melancholy,
but full of leaps
up to the sixth
down again to the
dominant — as if it kept
forgetting the force of its own
exuberance. Life is sad,
it plainly said, yet
life. I agree. I see this
disconnection on days
the wind and the light
seem not to coincide: sunny
days in February, storms
in August. Last week
I found a whole forest
behind a row of warehouses,
a little, bustling, oblivious
world of birds and trees.
I thought: this forest fragment,
why is it waiting?
It has more life than it can
hold. It should break
its asphalt bounds,
scatter its seeds
and birds as far as they
might venture — which is
quite far: birds’ weight
is inversely proportional
to their daring. What origins
couldn’t they uncover
with their wordless tunes?
Beneath what we call things
are their secret Names.
Between, are their thousand
elastic connections; and
within! (I love the word
within.) Within, the world
is windows — though
sometimes I miss them
looking for them
through them
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