The Bluebird Sang

Bluebird
  slipped a little tremble
    out of the triangle
      of his mouth

and it hung in the air
  until it reached my ear
    like a froth or a frill
      that Schumann

might have written in a dream.
  Dear morning
    you come
      with so many angels of mercy

so wondrously disguised
  in feathers, in leaves,
    in the tongues of stones,
      in the restless waters,

in the creep and the click
  and the rustle
    that greet me wherever I go
      with their joyful cry: I'm still here, alive!

~ Mary Oliver