The awkward bird
arose from her branch
puffing up her breast
and shaking her head
discovering a burning
sensation
in her throat
which carried pangs
into her tiny talons.
She tried out
a few simple notes
to crack open the stale air
before asking
the question,
was there a moment,
a degree of light or altitude
a passing gale
ideal
for realization
for comprehension of wings,
to soar, to sore to try again
and again
when did it know
to sing in truth with only vowels
Where did the poet go
in verse?
The owl chimed in
wisely
turning nocturnal
eyes
with avian alibi,
refused to name names.
Painting by Friedrich Thurau, c.1868 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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