I have a missing patch of self-plucked feathers on my breast,
A chipped beak from pecking at all the wrong trees,
And the most discordant song in the entire forest.
I don’t fly straight,
And I crash into windows.
I’ve sat in concussed wonder at how blue the sky looks when it is reflected in the glass.
I always forget where my nest is,
And I migrate every fall separate from the flock
Because I can’t stand the sound of synchronized wingflapping.
***Moody…. Well, when I wrote it I was. Feeling pretty good now though….***