A Bird Song

Lined across my windowsill are
ten Mason jars
filled with chirps of sparrows
and sounds of rain
from last year's Spring.

I have allowed them to pickle
for thirty two weeks,
having sprinkled in each container
a few pinches of sunlight,
vinegar, and sugar cane smells.
And shut their lids tight,
so that politics may not dehydrate them.
 
Let the apparent lack of pigmentation
not lead you to believe
that the jars resemble blouses
of voiceless vacuum. 
On the contrary,
they are symbols of shapeless museums
that exhibit the season's  historic artifacts.
 
When Winter comes,
and my mind boils in depression,
the pickled bird songs
are my only catharsis.

One of them asked me this morning,
Daniel, do you think the word "periodic"
originated from time intervals of the menstrual cycle?