Many years ago we lived in a house on Monterey Street with a canary Grandmother Cockrell had given us. This rusty yellow warbler was quite the fellow, perched in his wire-rimmed cage and singing most of the day.
We named him Chrysostom, after the golden-throated preacher from centuries ago. He was the much loved friend of family and friends as he preached his own gospel in song, cheering the sad and lonely with heavenly strains befitting one of God's beautiful creations. He didn't ask for much --- water, food, a good talking to and lots of noise to get him going.
Chrysostom was no weak-feathered wimp. With machismo manliness, he sounded a melodic scale of notes that would have impressed the hardest heart. As a 'chopper,' the music was often louder than we liked, but his enthusiasm atoned for this slight sin.
Poor Chrysostom's end would come as an overactive vacuumer bumped his cage and sent it toppling to the floor. He would never sing again in this life. He died within a few weeks from the shock.
In honor of his death, I wrote this poem. I believe it is the shortest poem ever written.
On the Death of Our Canary, Chrysostom
Birdless . . .
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . Wordless
