If you believe that you were not born to sing,
then you must allow the birds to tutor you,

sitting in places where they do, allowing them
to feel comfortable enough to vocalize near

you in your scary human suit. You will think,
at first, that they are all brilliant sopranos,

with their warbling trills, and, if you are
fortunate to study with an owl, you may

want to imitate its throaty hoo-hoo.
And you should, for allowing your throat

to open and sound to emerge is what you do
every day. Singing is just sustained talking,

after all. And the point is not to be good
or to necessarily harmonize with others.

The point is to sing out on a deep breath
a note of meaning—perhaps a joyful one,

but ones of sorrow and despair, too—
a long note. Do not worry if it wavers

or your voice breaks. Listen. The birds
falter, too. Join them. Let them remind

you that you are of a species that is born
in song. Sing your own tra-la to the wingéd

ones in trees, especially to those in cages.
In fact, open the cage and slowly climb in.

Do not mind the feather ruffling; settle in
on any available perch. Leave the door open.

Open your mouth. Let a note take wing.
See what happens.

•••

(For singers everywhere—

like my friend Lilly Ganly, a rock ‘n’ roll singer
who turns 17 today—

and Martha Kight, my high school friend,
still singing, still acting her heart out,

and my friend Katie O’Rourke, music teacher,
opera singer and chorus member, who, with
members of Chanteuses, a Sacramento women’s
chorus, recently performed at Carnegie Hall in
New York with dozens of singers from around
the country.)