Overhead,

above –

an earthward

tumble

of song and

smoke,

d

o

w

n

through budding

trees.

Two small birds,

a palm’s worth

each…

Beating wings.

Knitted,

knotted feet.

Rivals –

singing,

calling,

 falling

d

o

w

n.

For one fleet

moment,

I might

be crowned,

adorned in

feathered,

kinetic

strife.

 

— C.Birde, 5/18