Crickets and Other Evening Deities

It has been said that when a caged hummingbird cries,
crickets and other evening deities still their legs
to calm their song.
The silence becomes a lyrical eulogy, in which trees and nests can mourn
the loss of their winged brother.
Even the malicious vultures pause on the horizon with a pang in their cold hearts.

In the city of New York, where mutiny and arson make poetry,
the music of animals reflects
away from us.
Our contents include more alcohol and ignorance than bumblebees,
and I like to assume that God
made this a special place for the lonely.
A special place where love is nothing but a rare disorder
or a story you read in a book and then reread for clairty.
The story of a beggar living in a box, and a woman who works in an office.
And you remember that story, because that couldn't happen, no, never.
Not in a place where broken promises are more common than commas.
Not in a place where beauty is a retrospective concept.
Not in a place where you can barely see the sky.

You can't fall in love if you can't hear the hummingbird cry.
- Sara Beth Palmer (Spring 2011 - Forcing the Wall)