Happiest Times
The frantic birds' conversation
begins and ends in birdspeak.
They trill, they
flit, they fly.
Barely landing long enough
to call it a land, and then
they fly again.
A small gray feathery creature, so
small, methinks she might be a
hummingbird. flies over my
satisfied sun-pressed body, where
I lie in the grass, a voyeur.
Happiest times are when the sun has
followed the birdspeak
into thy yard.
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