These were the nest builders;
I caught one last morning, I sang
so it fell down, stupid,
from the trees. They're so incorrect
in their dead skin. Witness their twig
feet, the mistake of their hands.
They will follow you. They yearn
pebbles for their gullets to grind
their own seed. They swallow
so selflessly and die
like patriots.
I like this take on birds, much different than common thought of their beauty.
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