by Robert Lloyd Jaffe
The small black bird
walked past us as if to say
"Why do you insist on taking to the sky?
If I had my way, I would never fly again;
the tedious search for food, the cold
nights amid the branches—
and what do you get for it?
A hawk looks to make a meal of you;
a hunter a stuffed memento."
I examine that little bird's pointed
black face—I see his subtle expression.
He's just venting—complaining of the
life he loves.
I think he knows why we must fly.
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ABOUT THE POET ~
I am an observer and listener of the music of life. Where I find cadence, I find my interest and passion directed. It can be sound, light, smell, or purely an experience of thought. The sky, the sea, the mountains, and the machines that allow me to explore those places draw my attention, and give me serenity.
Last updated May 06, 2016