Small yellow birds

I’m so grateful for friendships because they are some evidence that I’m living right after all, at least some of the time, at least a little bit.
If you still want to be my friend, then I can’t be all bad, right?
If I was as terrible as I sometimes think I am then probably you would stop loving me, writing me back, inviting me to things.
You’re my still-a-good-person canary.

If it turns sour, are the canaries meant to cry out first?
I wouldn’t like to cage anyone.
Better to take flight than die if finding it hard to breathe.
But why not a warning song?

Some canaries have flown away.
Canaries that stopped inviting me to things, or now that I think on it, never really invited me to things in the first place.
Canaries that stopped writing me back though. Those exist.
Canaries that stopped loving me? Hard to say. Who am I to know what lies in the hearts of small yellow birds?

Fears of flown coops have me senselessly searching for early signs of distress.
I really do wish canaries would sing out in warning of toxic environments,
though if I too am a small yellow bird then I admit I’ve sometimes winged away.

Maybe canaries think it is kinder to take wing than risk startling with a cry.
Maybe canaries sang songs that I failed to hear.
Maybe canaries couldn’t get enough air to cry out.
Maybe canaries are flying just out of sight for a time.

Canary literature reveals that it is rare for female canaries to sing.
Most only chirp.

And here ends metaphor because we should resist biological determinism of human gender roles.
And canaries are small yellow birds about which I am ambivalent.
And friends are more than indicators of whether I am a good and worthy person.

I admire and cherish you, dear friend.
I am grateful for the joy you bring to my life.
I am invested in nurturing an ongoing relationship with you.

But I do implore you to sing out or at the very least, chirp at me, if ever our air becomes toxic.