New bird houses being built;
A self-righteous science teacher thinks
he’s doing the birds a favor; the wood sanded so nicely,
the ID number written in sharpie, letters as black as tar.
The house is empty, no sign: “FOR SALE, OPEN SUNDAY”
looms in front, or perhaps new families don’t like the
prospect of a one room, ½ bath flat. I can understand:
moving from open air, strong, protecting branches,
the moon gleaming just above, the wind ruffling feathers gently,
To a lovely, hard, wooden, box. Dark,
but cozy.

I can relate.
Everyday, I fly away through a tiny hole
to collect worms, pebbles, little scraps and tidbits.
Then I return home to regurgitate it all, in greater detail,
and depart again the next day.
A delightful routine! And yet, sometimes
my wings grow heavy, and
I fly closer to the ground. To relieve the weariness

I walk through the woods, to speak with my comrades;
Swap stories and advice.
I tell them to always tip the grocer, always ring the doorbell twice,
always be certain.
They tell me to whistle while I work;
I try, but my breat comes out in
tiny, subdued screams.