We have birds in our box. So young, they
may not have flying feathers—how could they
know clouds and the sift of sun through leaves?
Their box hangs from an oak limb, rockabye
birdlets when a breeze comes through.
Their mother hears me, boots muffled in spring
grass. She escapes the box-hole, scolds me
invisibly from above. Her place is trees,
walking head-first down the bark in search of
bugs. I peek in at her babies who have no need
of human—not words nor fingers. I don’t
know how to reach them, wake them to flight.
Could it be tomorrow? Six bright yellow bills
point in six directions. Overhead, leaves
like birds flying.
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back