My father used to whistle,

she said, as so many do

when they hear me whistle.

Born in the rhythm of the beating

heart, in a mother’s lullaby,

in our body and breath,

music molded in the warmth

of tongue and lips,

our homegrown symphony.

Casual whistling has become

a lost art. I miss the serenades

of mailmen, workmen, butchers.

Maybe you can catch a hint

of this skill in an old movie.

Marching British prisoners of war,

arms swinging at their sides,

bravely chirping a stirring march.

We used to sing like birds.

Our birdsong now silenced,

we summon our music from the genie

in a Bluetooth speaker:

Alexa, play a happy tune!