I wish these finches would get
to the point.  Mismade the coffee

in a haze of sleep. Resembles
creosote, not to mention

the taste.  A flock of finches
is called a fancy, pairing well

with the flights of swallows,
but I prefer a knot of them;

once again drawn to that
shifting shape, an illusion

of depth as they hurtle
small bodies at one

another, the cliff,
the ground. Why

do they do it?
Does free will

come with size,
or at the expense

of instinct?