No, not a bird this time.
In the darkness, a human song
whistled unmistakably
minor key, the long-breathed melody
identifying our melancholy kind.
Not simply thankful for days
ribboned with sunlight,
not composed by the sight
of well-anchored nests
that will withstand the Northwind.
It is the note that a Eurydice
knows in her dark passage rite
as she is rushed along beyond
any recognizable landmark.
It is the strain that only a mortal carries
past all the stone angels in his path.

Maxine Cassin
from her book Turnip’s Blood
Sisters Grim Press, 1985

Used with permission of the poet’s estate.