I heard a woman’s voice scream from out of my window , “It my birthday.”
Her friend said, “It’s her birthday.”
Further away down the street cars whistle by an approaching voice says,
“It’s your birthday, Happy birthday.”
“Thank you ,” She said
I had an idea started as a scream scratched it down before it was gone
Imprinted a character sketch of this song, her name a muse, I call her altitude.
And it’s her birthday
She is high up on an airplane flight now , and the borders and cliffs look like slices of cake
In the turbulent place between ground and air, things seem as she’d like them
The choppy clouds rattle change her course just a wince
She will land in time to see the candles melt in the surface of cool white icing, on her birthday
“Happy Birthday”
“Thank you,” she said.
NAR 1996