At the end of every news cycle,
I sweep my mind
of the day’s detritus –
children in cages, election machines calibrated to confirm
our escalating doom, icebergs melting one broken treaty
at a time –
for a chance to scream out
all my responses
at once.

I am sorry.
I am angry.
I am spent.
I am frustrated.
I am alone.
I am nothing.

Every morning, I wake up to
a song
called
“Bird of Paradise”,
reminding me in its notes
that the exotic and curious
can reside in the middle
of everything.

I am hesitant.
I am hopeful.
I am engaged.
I am resolute.
I am not alone.
I am part of a collective pulse.