early morning questions

this morning a bird decided to sit right outside my window. in my sleep i heard a sweet song, and endlessly unplanned series of chrips and tweets. its sweet noises, only held together by the joy of moments. i opened my eyes and rolled off the edge. i walked around to my window to look at it. i was taken back by how tiny it was. not a baby but, by the chirrpinng i had assumed it wold be bigger. white and gray feathers only accented more by the harsh skies overhead, hinting at the coming of a storm. but on it's wings, a genle splash of blue.

 

i sat there and watched it. it turned around and looked at me, still, and calm...content with my sitting there. it turned around and began jabbing its head in different drections, thoughtful and indifferent about everything it looked at. but still searching around, calling out with its chirps. it flew down off the roof and over to a tree. singing, looking.

 

 

 

 

what was it doing? was it looking for another bird? did the simple song so easy and clean, have purpose? was this bird lost?

 

or had it merely woken up and wanted to sing? did the bird do it without reason, without a concious awareness of his melodic tones? i knew that i felt pretty small in this now marvelous corner of the world. i leaned over to grab my pen and pad. looked up. and it was gone. is life itself, not enough anymore?

 

 

 

 

now,

clicking away at the keys, looking at the letters and words appearing on the screen as my fingers jab at the keyboard...the sun now starts to fight its way through the clouds holding it hostage. its warm rays creeping slowly through my window, playing with the edge of my knee. warm.

 

and im missing it all because i'm sitting here typing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i hate artists. they are selfish creatures by nature. full of themselves and most of the time pretentious whiney little f*****g a******s. but there are the few, captivated by there art, held by the peoples enjoyment of art, that they themselves cannot enjoy this life we've been given. yes the life itself is cold and hard and s****y. i know this more than most. but because they slave away at these empty wild gestures of artistic flair, they miss out on the subtle beauty. same as i right now. writing this while you all sit impressed by my prose. or language or whatever. i'm done.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

I have known a few Artist in my life. Only poor writers and musicians. I like the story. The story of the bird made the story interesting. A very good story. Thank you.
Coyote