im going to miss the birds.
windowpane, stripped
and,
trees wept from the moaning storm
drives them away.
tips of skins and fingers alike
make attempts at reaching
through the sand pane of the cold
to the birds and their softness.
fly.
dive.
dip, die?
yeah, i’m going to miss the birds.
in a melodic dementia they squeal
and a song and dance
never quite repeatable.
through hail and the fire
driven trees soaked with the briny tears
of the bay.
the clouds check, okay.
trees, playing red light green light
with their swift children.
the fall.
the birds.
it’s yellow now, caution?
proceed and beware.
sing but keep watch.
dive and be fast.
i’m missing the birds.
do you think they’ll miss me too?
their captive,
hands on the window, only watching.
envious. high up in my tree house
of brick and of cruel glass.
stuck, still.
missing the birds.
