A Red Bird
A red bird, motionless
A cardinal rare to my city eyes
And almost indistinguishable
From it’s neighboring autumn leaves
Crimson and rusty,
Feathered with impatience
For winter.
A red bird
Silently invisible
Aside from a telling
Twitch, or a quiver, or the flexing of wings
The blink of an empty eye.
A red bird
Enviable and unenviable
And all to itself as it
Considers not a thing
Except whether to take flight
Or stay perfectly still.
Copyright © Matthew Howels | Year Posted 2017
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