As we sit
in the great metal tube
we imagine ourselves
birds awaiting the freedom
only the sky offers.
The clouds reach down
swaddling us and we
realize that we have
yet to fledge, likely
never will do so.
Peering out the small
window, the earth shrinks
and grows large again,
and as we step out,
the birds look at us
and feel only pity.
The birds in the wetland
speak to me in my dreams,
telling tales of what this place
was before we arrived
and forever changed it.
They don’t curse us, although
they remind us we are cursed
by our own actions, but
they do pity us, ground bound
living in our own waste.
In the morning the birds
have disappeared, a few
vultures carrying off the bodies
left by the bobcats whose
territory we have made our own.
At night I say a prayer
for the departed birds, and in
my dreams they come again,
and reject my prayer as hollow
and seeking only absolution.
As you look at him or her
do you see someone with
a beauty you only wish you had,
or someone you pity
for lacking your beauty?
As they look at you
do they see someone with
a beauty they only wish they had
or someone they pity
for lacking their beauty?
When I look at either of you
I see a person like myself, feel
neither jealousy or pity
for in those emotions
the moment is truly wasted.
birds
do not know
or accept
boundaries
demand
freedom
to fly where
and when
they will
they acknowledge
here
and there
look down
on people
sadly, knowing
gravity is
our prison
and we
draw lines
to keep
others out
ourselves in
our space private
birds have
infinite space
and freedom
and pity
for us
The birds look at us as though we had two heads. They cannot, they say, comprehend how we can stand to live in boxes, to travel in metal containers, to be stuck forever to the ground. They say that food should be picked then eaten instantly, not packaged and half thrown away. They say they cannot see how we are supposedly more evolved than they, for they have the sort of freedom about which we only talk endlessly. But most of all, and saddest of all, we know they pity us as we pity ourselves.
Sunday
They gather in the trees
remarkably silent
one speaks
their morning prayers
and they
return home.
Monday
Only three arrive
to commentate
our morning walk.
We appreciate
the silence.
Tuesday
There is a reason
for all
sentient creatures
but the crow
tests our credulity.
Wednesday
A wintered branch
breaks
under the weight
of the blackness.
There is much
gnashing of wing.
Thursday
A single bird
seems pitiable
and lonley
but we lack
avian compassion.
Friday
The usual
morning cacaphony
but why are they
so happy
it is Friday?
Saturday
Would that they
were ravens
and would heed
my entreaty
Nevermore!
an old writer and his words 