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
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