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What bird are you, repeating "Here! Here! Here!"
and later, "What to do!" as if distraught,
and "What do do" again? And yet it's clear
you're neither calling me nor overwrought,
but occupied, and singing quite by chance.
Almost unseen, your feathered self, aware
of nothing but each pressing circumstance--
each straw for your light carpentry midair--
tosses out songs in passing, line by line
not consciously, but idly thrown away
on strangers' ears as ignorant as mine.
And still I hear you say the things you say,
swear I could almost knock on your green door,
as if you meant it and I knew what for.
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