I’ve never seen a swallow
fly so high, batted about
like a shred of plastic

the finches have
the loveliest songs,
probably in admiration
of their own jewel
-throated elegance

the quails are more
reticent and speak
mostly in numbers,
so prone to alarm

and what am I,
well into a bottle
of white, settled
on the deck

where just below
my feet I think
some bird has
made its nest

under the corner
planks, more
drab and sparrow
-like, but still

it owns a song,
while I struggle
to peck out
words of my
own, but

maybe we are
more alike
than not,
fond of flight

and sincerely
astonished
when things
start to
hatch.