For the Bird Singing before Dawn

For the Bird Singing before Dawn 

By Kim Stafford

 

Some people presume to be hopeful

when there is no evidence for hope,

to be happy when there is no cause.

Let me say now, I’m with them.

 

In deep darkness on a cold twig

in a dangerous world, one first

little fluff lets out a peep, a warble,

a song—and in a little while, behold:

 

the first glimmer comes, then a glow

filters through the misty trees,

then the bold sun rises, then

everyone starts bustling about.

 

And that first crazy optimist, can we

forgive her for thinking, dawn by dawn,

“Hey, I made that happen!

And oh, life is so fine.”

 

 

About This Poem

“Many times in my life I’ve been told by serious people that I must be very naïve to be happy, to have hope, to celebrate this little life I’ve been given when, actually, they say, everything is pretty dire. There’s war, poverty, crushing injustice all over—what right do I have to talk back to all that with flimsy little poems about the good? What can I say? The birds are my teachers, my elders, my guides. Every day before dawn, in silence and darkness, I’m at my desk making poems on the page. And then, before light, I hear the first bird outside begin to sing.”

—Kim Stafford