About the Birds

About the Birds

 

(Consider the Birds of the Air)

 

I do not know

About the birds,

 

Except

 

That they are slight

 

And slip

 

The capture of my words 

Whenever they alight

 

They are like tickles

On a breeze,

 

A clink

Of tiny

Chimes

 

That bid a poet

 To a fest of chirps 

And perfect rhymes

 

They are not much

Of anything,

 

But everything I love

 

When I am hopping on the grass

Or flying high above

 

 

I do not know

About the birds,

 

Except

 

That they are

 

Quick

 

And bounce

From branch

 

To bush

 

To brain  

 

And somehow never stick

 

They only seek to win the day;

They are a chortled joy

That undermines

A poet’s plan 

With tricks

 

That they employ

 

They are not much

Of anything

 

But everything I am

 

When I am hiding

From the rain 

Or feeding

In a glen

 

 

I do not know

About the birds,

 

Except

 

That they are

 

Here

 

And like us all

Must lead their lives

Without a purpose clear

 

They are brief answers

To long thoughts,

 

A happy children’s book,

With pop-up pages

 

Everywhere

 

That I am bound to look

 

They are not much

Of anything,

 

But everything

 

I sing,

 

When I am perched

Upon a branch,

 

And fancy

Takes to wing.