About the Birds

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 happy 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.