In the Company of Birds

In the company of birds My eyes are red, the red of wings. The simian stain of my human graceless sorrow and pain seeps into the noble architecture of the nest, but no blemish can dim its rosy stems. Morning follows morning, seductive mist full chill. I sit on a wet stone wall under flustered, verdant ferns. Red birds fly from oak to cable without guile, their tangible grace nestling in me. I feel the tremor of wing and heart, a choir of birdsong in delicate harmony with my timid voice. Morning after morning the red birds, uncorrupted by futility, capture and teach me, at last, to fly with audacity.