Three birds, a tree, a winter day
One without song, one without say
The first had no song, no way to express
That feeling that troubled, that thing of unrest
The next had a song, but no reason to sing
And there in that tree reason was king
The third bird will always remain an unknown
Why didn't the little bird let loose its notes?
Perhaps it was simply awaiting the time
When its voice could be heard without a false chime
Not wasting its breath, it knew well its want
An audience maybe, or a bigger part?
Or perhaps the bird knew that silence was gold
For its message of patience, no song could have told