Self-Portrait as Birds

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.