Just me, and that sound. One man, earth and time-bound,; one bird, free in an empty sky A unique occasion. But a moment shared by so many others... Which experience then, despite – or because even – of its unoriginality, I hope might justify another poem. Lark Is that it, that little speck – is that the bird which never stops to take a breath, the bird whose song someone called a silver chain of many links – can you see where it begins, this chain of sound linking me to somewhere high – like the string of a kite, a vanishing line which tugs with a life of its own, as if sounds by themselves could draw me up towards the origin of that song – while all I can do is strain my neck focusing upon infinity as I scan the sky, seeking the source of a singing that hints at eternity?