They sing in the dark and who knows why,  
the moonless night still far from over, 
you listen for the call of the neighborhood 
owls but hear only the chatter of songbirds, 
was it always so? the fears of the unborn day 
already stirring within, suppression is 
nine-tenths of the law of getting through it,
 but it's that one-tenth that will set you free, 
maybe that's what the birds are here to say,  
whistling in the unlit world outside your 
window: that this is how we let that shit go.