It seems rather strange that although the sky is overcast and gray,
I can still hear cooing and chirping and tweeting and cawing from the birds outside my window.
It’s bittersweet to see that while the sky is overcrowded with gray,
there are birds uncaringly and unrelentingly existing.
Should they not be dull and sad?
Can they not see the heavy sky?
Why do they insist on living,
when their home – the sky – says they should not?
I wonder what the sun would think about the whole debacle.
Would she lean back and assure the stars that,
“Oh, this is all of my grand plan?”
Or does she even care? Dare I say… does she even exist?
I suppose it doesn’t matter.
The birds just have to keep singing.