Before the morning symphony when you hear sounds of tuning crickets, of warbling wind and humming bees, while fluttering in the thickets a chirp, a whistle, a rustling of feathers bring the branches of the briar bustling about hither and dither as the birds prepare their choir. In a lonely cottage on a dewy meadow next to a window stood a cage. In its bamboo bars a small bright yellow Parakeet with breast of sage proudly perched on man made branch staring through the window frame at all the life along the ranch listening to the sounds that came. But one sound, one song, one soothing voice soared through the throng and caught his ear. She sang so lovely that he’d rejoice each morning when her voice appeared and brought him tales of far off lands, hide and seek games in the cumuli, of traveling across the ocean spans and a heaven that awaits in the sky. Each day the song bird in the hedge sang to him his hopes and dreams and he knew just past the window ledge, beyond these narrow bamboo beams was a place where life was merry, where he could make his family, where the heavens were his aviary and his home was a tall safe tree. But the cage gate still remained closed and his once pretty wings had been clipped With each day he felt more like a ghost and each night his lonely heart wept for he knew he could never be freed. His lot in life had already been chose. Though he dreamt someday he’d succeed the cage gate still remained closed. Still each morning the song bird she sang to him, songs of life and love and with each lovely note that he heard he knew her voice would be enough to bring him the joys of lands far away, of games in the clouds and trips across seas, of watching your children laugh and play and holding your lover warm in the breeze. She sang to him one last song on the last lonely day of his life. She brought dreams that lasted as long as forever and in them were a wife and children and friends by his side, a bright blue sky where he could roam free, his once clipped wings now full and wide and with each morning came a symphony But before the morning symphony there comes sounds of tuning crickets, the warbling wind, the humming bees and somewhere in the thickets a chirp, a whistle, a rustling of feathers bustling the branches of the briar jittering about hither and dither as the little yellow bird joins the choir.