One bird came on Monday morning, Silver feathers in the rain. Tuesday brought another with it, Singing softly at my pane. Every morning brought another, Every morning, one bird more. I began to count their shadows As they gathered by my door. Seven birds beneath the sunlight, Twelve beneath a cloudless sky. Sixteen sleeping on the rooftop, Never asking where or why. When they sang, the clocks grew slower. When they slept, the hours were still. I could watch the daylight resting On the houses and the hill. Twenty-four birds upon my window, Twenty-four hours upon the wall. If tomorrow never finds me, Will the twenty-fifth bird call? Twenty-four wings against the morning, Twenty-four shadows in the hall. If the night forgets to leave me, Will there be a dawn at all? On the twenty-fourth day I woke Before the first light touched the room. Every bird was at the window, Silent in the silver gloom. Not a feather moved between them. Not a branch moved in the air. On the wall the clock was waiting, But its hands went nowhere. I opened up the window. No bird turned its head. The morning light was beautiful, Pale gold and quiet red. I thought about tomorrow. I tried to count the night. Twenty-four birds were watching As the sky grew white. Twenty-four birds upon my window, Twenty-four hours upon the wall. If tomorrow never finds me, Will the twenty-fifth bird call? I have not slept since yesterday. Or was it yesterday at all?
