Downtown.
The rogue wintering chickadee
comes in
for a crash landing and takes off again
And who are you to not wonder
how feet so
small can carry a collection of feathers
headstrong into a north wind?
A hop
A leap
A simple run.
He clears the bushes in his bumpy flight
and you with your wire-rimmed glasses and red-rimmed eyes
secretly wishing you could do
the same.
Birdsong and flight are such a blessing. Do they ever sing a sad song? Even this week I've heard their tunes of joy. Let us all remember our wings.
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