If you're a bird

When was the last time

I sat in the trees watching

the brown birds with their black

wingtips dig baths for themselves

plumply in the gravel? Birds this small

always look afraid— whether house sparrow

or northern mockingbird—but that one,

quickly tilting his head and fluffing

his coat over a cigarette butt,

just looks free. Nowhere to be

but where he is.

The spring of some other place calls

to him, but not so strong now. Now

there is the sun and leftover burrito

in bright tinfoil, and the others chirping

excitedly,

and children waiting somewhere higher

but—-in this moment—I cannot

fathom the reason for standing there or there—

the feeling of that freedom—the life of it.

Long after that hotel is union or

not,  after our government expires or

our bodies evaporate into a cloud of blood

and radiation, after the pencil skirts and neckties,

this ground will be here

and it will be covered in slow falling leaves that become dirt

and then plants will grow and the homes

and skyscrapers will crumble, the forms will die

but there will be life, hungry

birds in the sun and squirrels

passing between them

in an agreement so old

it seems aimless to someone like me,

terrified of what to do when

not working 60 hours a week.

Be the body you are.

Raise your voice in praise.

Nothing has been given that

will ever end.

Love does not die.

People die.

The large speckled bird with black chest

and long legs runs from the shadows.

Northern Flicker. It evades death 

every second

in this city full of dangers,

but I am the one

who is afraid.