Redbird on waxleaf privet branch calls 
as he has a billion times past; enticing.
Cheer--cheer--cheer--pretty--pretty 
we mimic, but what is he really saying;

mere yakking, indoctrination, concert
or berating, teasing, making fun of me
as I sit in my closed windowed-box 
feeling belittled for my lack of a song?

Swaying leaves, twitching penumbra,
cast by light through my window, dance
upon my dull blue wall to an ancient
choral refrain. Even leaf-light has a song!

What is my song? I don't know the words,
the rhythm, the rhyme, the point of worth.
Was the first song a mere utterance of awe; 
wonderment in the presence of sunlight. 

"Ah! Ah!" will be my song! I sing to the leaves
 and they freeze for just an instant to listen.
Then, crackling into brilliant light slivers,
they resume their own soft, dancing song.