we know he came to power hungry for blood and it matters not whose—as long as it's red and profits his gross—but let us not talk of that now, forgive me—it's a beautiful spring sunday in may and the redbird is trilling so dearly to his partner nearby and we see and feel he sings for us and the simple joy of singing as well after such sadness, giving us in a sense an innocent affirmation and a better reason to cry.