Song in the deep predawn


Perhaps it’s the time, here in the deep predawn
of the solar year, but I’m wondering again,
who I am.

Yet this morning, before any perceptible light,
on the narrow path through the woodlot,
I heard a blackcap chickadee.

And I imagined that head, those small dark wings,
the pinions primed for flight.
How it sang in the dark, like a festival.


  1. I found myself pondering this for several minutes. The perennial question “who am I” is answered not from within, but from knowing where I am. The richness of where I am renders the question of who I am insignificant.

    Of course, I might have missed your meaning entirely, but as Derrida would have said, that doesn’t matter:)

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