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.
Last updated May 06, 2016