Caged birds sing because they have wings


There’s always something new to work on, to perfect. The ways by which we carry out our chores draw pictures of an essence holding on to quips and giggles,

Each noonday sun wound up giddy gushings of a being on dopey dollars and the wide eyes waking up to nervous laughter,

The chickadee got caught in the yard and ran around in circles for days before the chicken wire appeared to box this darling in a world of praying to be happy with the land she rested in,

But mother hens know better. If eggs rest oft in beds of straw ‘neath feathers warm and gray then the wolf looks an awful lot like the farmer come to collect

His daily catch to feed the family, but the market got the call. ‘Hello’s and “how are you’s” only greet, they never mean much to a quiet bird watching the rest of the world fly by,

An unkindness of ravens, an unkindness of many for they whoosh cross skies and reap the fluid from the clouds to beckon fellows down below

In fear of moving night above — the apocalypse, the craze, the monument to a hellish stone resting in a garden of quiet,

The flyers touch down on the fence made for tearing and welcome up an earthbound chick for a littered path of soaring.


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