If I wrote a song today, there would be a verse about birds because this week I witnessed two of them, on two separate occasions, helpless and injured on the sidewalk in front of me. One young bird fell out of the nest above my head just as I walked by. I might write a second verse that would ask what else I could have done besides simply walk by.
There would be a very long verse with too many words about my family, how much they mean to me, and how much I hope I mean to them.
There would be a verse about my great friend, who this week suffered a major heart attack and who is now in the hospital following surgery. I would tell of his long and loyal relationship over many decades, how he has enriched my life and how much better I have become by knowing him.
There would be a very short verse that would ponder whether or not my job is significant.
There would be a verse about people who ride the train, legs splayed, bags on cushions meant for passengers, their bodies blocking access to the seat next to them.
There would be a verse about seeing the reflection of my face, noticing no change day by day except for the deepening creases that somehow migrated there since a picture taken a decade ago.
In between each verse would be a majestic, joyful refrain—a sort of counterpoint—expressing gratitude to God for birds, for family, for friends, for jobs, for trains and for health.