Electric Postcards and Neon Birds

A Poem by Itsalright_ma

birds do know the landscape

Birds in a vacuum have no song,
though their light travels day in and out
in technicolor, beneath trees
and over melting snow on rooftops;
in the distance they shall always be
much smaller than they are.

Electric displays, like flaming metals,
are warehouses and laboratories
reflecting progress and the slow tick of time;
superman trumpets all along
the history of the steam trains blaring,
high-definition trade becoming 3-D,
colored contact lenses and information superhighways
connected, burning bandwidths
of the past, post-modern pirates
and treasures in our secret heart.

Now we are all sitting on the veranda
looking for goldfinches in the pines,
our dream holding a horizon we've never had
carefully, in books balanced on our head,
art history and strings in G minor;
every tree of our vibrant design.