I saw a bird alter its state today.
Before it flew to the telephone line, it dropped into the tree and was a bird in all its making: pecking and preening.
Then, for no reason, it flew to the wire.
With wings pinned and legs outstretched - its body prostrate and a beak like Gabriel’s horn - it dipped and sidled its tune.
The bird thought nothing of its existence, the hours behind or in front, nor the dross of the street below.
Instead, it tipped its soul into the blue, and thinned the line between heaven and earth.
The bird stopped being a bird and became its song.