My inner songbird is a crow.
It is not a lovely nightingale, or even a mourning dove.
No, my inner songbird is a squawking, croaking crow.
It doesn’t have a lovely voice, or a gentle soothing sound.
On the inside, I try to imagine my songbird can carry a tune.
The reality is I don’t know, because I quit trying to sing long ago.
So I guess the only songbird that I have is the one that never sings, that squawking croaking crow.
I feel rebellion stirring, when I hear myself say that my songbird never sings.
Maybe even a squawking, croaking crow should make some noise now and then.
And maybe, maybe a crow is just the right kind of bird for certain kinds of songs.
I think of the poems of Leonard Cohen, half spoken, with feeling, and backup singers.
Maybe I should forget about a perfect offering and let my crow sing.
Maybe a crow has its own talents to bring, shiny bits of tinsel and captivating string.
My inner songbird is a feisty, scavenging crow.
Naked Soul Thoughts 