Above small birds chirp and big ones squawk
though they can’t make the “s” sound.
Little blue ones and massive gray ones.
So instead it’s a din of guttural but how does
their gut, their collective stomach,
of shrunken former monstrosities sing in varied unison?
A cardinal is perched on a wire
where there may or may not be current running
calling to no one in particular and everyone:
“I’m here! Hello?” Tomorrow will be new
and the bird will decide not to seek for mates
nor seeds, he will leave behind his trappings
of normalcy and become a prophet.
Not sitting on an artificial line but diving
upwards while screeching into the air
so that he can rain back down in particles
of nonsense, but perhaps he’ll reach
far enough off this earth and sleep early
and never wake up again and become nothing
which is closest to joy he doesn’t think because he can’t.