Pandemic poetry | The Birds Outside My Window Sing During a Pandemic by Lee Herrick

The Birds Outside My Window Sing During A Pandemic

Lee Herrick

What we need has always been inside of us.
For some – a few poets or farmers, perhaps -
it's always near the surface. Others, it's buried.
It was in our original design, though – pre-machine,
pre-border, pre-pandemic. I imagine it like the light
one might feel through the body before dying,
a warm calm, a slow breath, a sweet rush.
There is, by every measure, reason for fear,
concern, a concert in the balcony of anxiety
made of what has always been inside of us;
a kind of knowing that everything could break.
But it hasn't quite yet and probably won't.
What I mean to say is, I had a day dream
and got lost inside of it. There were dozens
of birds for some reason, who sounded like
they were singing in different accents:
shelter in place, shelter in place.
You're made of stars and grace,
Stars and grace, Stars – and grace.