I’ve fluttered around the edge of cliques,
pressed my beak against the bars,
not in envy, but out of interest,
and for the little warm
glow they give off. I like a little warmth, but
not enough to open any door and go in.
At the end of the day, I don’t know
how the sky holds all this color,
especially at the end of the best of days
as if to say living, any way you go about it,
is a bruising business.
And the darkness afterward is immense
when it drops on all, making the gull
and the crow indistinguishable.
I give a little toss, and turn my
hurt thoughts into birds,
release them to a mindless sky,
watch the dark murmuration
curve and collapse inward,
upward, and disappear behind
those dark trees.
ISSUE: Spring 2016