Every morning
the birds begin their meeting
before I do.

They chirp with an enthusiasm
that feels slightly unnecessary
for 6:07 a.m.

Outside my window
they are holding some sort of conference
about joy.

I listen.

But the strange thing is
I know
they are not singing to me.

They are singing to a life
happening somewhere slightly offstage.

A life where the sun is warmer
and the coffee is always hot
and someone remembers
to buy the good bread.

A life where people wake up
already inside the melody.

Meanwhile
I sit very still
hearing the notes
like a radio station
from a town I do not live in.

Chirp.
Chirp.
Chirp.

Somewhere out there
something beautiful
is happening.

And I am brushing my teeth
checking my email
finding my shoes
doing the small administrative tasks
of being alive.

There are forms to sign.
Meetings to attend.
Trains to catch.
A thousand gears
waiting for someone to turn them.

And apparently
that someone
is me.

The birds keep singing
about their mysterious good morning.

About wind and branches
and possibility.

I stare out the window
blank-faced
hearing the soundtrack
of a life I have not quite entered.

Not yet.

But maybe
this is the quiet part
no one tells you

maybe the melody
does not start all at once.

Maybe first
you simply keep showing up.

You put the kettle on.
You answer the email.
You open the door.

You keep turning the gears
of the ordinary day.

And one morning
without ceremony
without announcement
one of the birds

very casually

will be singing
about you.