Singing to the Birds

Reading in the morning sun

Oh, Flannery, oh Connor

I wish I could tell you

that a good man isn’t so hard to find

singing songs for the birds

writing poems to poets

loving all the lovers gone

if we want to live

we have to think about dying

we have to think about dying

baby birds chirping in the nest under the gutter

Momma bird shouts “Be Cool, Be Quiet, Danger Nearby”

the wide eyed and lip-licking feline resting in his sphinx pose

says to me “I can wait for as long as it takes”

and I know death is coming