December, by Alexandre Martinho

In the month of September a bird came to me.

She flew to my forest and perched on a tree.

As I sat in a chair, alone in my shack,

I looked out the window and was taken aback

By its beauty, its splendor, its plume almost gold,

A more wonderful creature I will never behold.

She perched on that tree as solid as a rock,

As small as a finch, as graceful as a hawk.

In that large, woody forest, what was the significance,

Of a small, feath’ry creature that displayed such magnificence?

Each day of that month, that thought came to mind,

As I stared out my window, the truth I would find.

In the month of October, I feared she would leave,

The cold, autumn chill would naturally cleave

The bird from me, she would fly to seek

Heat for her wings, some food for her beak.

In the month of October, I visited each day,

The bird on that tree but never did say

How I wished she would stay, but I knew that she knew,

From her perch on that tree she never flew.

Each day of that month, it became ever more clear,

She loved me, she did, she thought me a dear.

But I could not say what the bird meant to me,

So I watched and I waited. I’d see what I’d see.

In the month of November, the bird, she did sing,

She filled my small shack with a melodious ring.

Her voice like an angel, her song full of meaning,

I felt in my soul the direction it was leaning

Towards the tree in my forest where the bird did perch,

On the branches of the tree, the dying white birch.

The song kept me up. It stopped me from eating.

Each day of that month, the tune kept repeating.

It was in the wood. It was in my shack.

The song made its way through every crack.

But I could not say what that song meant to me,

Whether it filled me with distress or drowned me in glee.

In the month of December, I knew what to do.

I knew what I knew. I formed my own view.

From the wall of my cabin I grabbed my shotgun,

And snuck to that tree before she could run.

With a BANG and a cry, she fell to the ground,

And in that cold morning was not uttered a sound.

I made my way back and took my old seat,

I entered my cabin with no one to greet.

Each day of that month, one thought in my head,

Alone in my shack, outside she is dead.

“It’s quiet. It’s too quiet.”

-Alexandre Martinho

Featured in Vol. 1 Iss. 7
Featured in Vol. 1 Iss. 7