crows, gulls, and those little guys who fly so fast

crank and marfle on about topics well outside

boxes, wheelhouses, bailiwicks my languages stake

out; they might be talking about territory, it’s the one

thing we are sure they do;

over my head, some sort of fellow with a voice like a movie

sound-effect – damp, metallic and slick – sings slow motion camera

sings paparazzi or water faucet open, or some other tale more bizarre.

so say i, we don’t know what birds are on about.

some of us tell others of us, whilst standing in chest-puffed aspect, that

those fellows have no concern greater than the present, definitely, they

cannot possibly know stories about things they’ve never seen.

yet another thing-that-for-sure-separates-us-from-the-run-of-the-mill

animals

i think it’s like this: birds fast

if they have to.

birds feast, when the feasting’s good

birds sing, to greet the sun, and if we are intelligent enough

to learn even one small thing from those fellows, let it be that.

the rest is pretence and feather dressings.

if i see you wearing feathers, is that your promise? that you’ll sing?

every morning, at dawn, wherever you are, one note of thanks

to the sun for rising, the world for turning, to life for allowing your song.

birds manage that.

who are we to comment on what else they might achieve?

Image: Gyrfalcon, by Couleur on Pixabay.com