Of the genesis of birds we know nothing,
save the legend they are descended
from reptiles: flying,
that have somehow taken to air.
...But what does it matter
anyway how they got up high...?
are often far
from home in a dark town, and our griefs
are difficult to translate into a language
understood by others.
still, it is morning again, this day.
In the flowering trees
the birds take up their indifferent,
around. Perhaps it isn’t too late
to make a fool of yourself again.
Perhaps it isn’t too late
your arms and cry out, to give
one more cracked rendition of your
singular, aspirant song.
Charles Smith: "The Meaning Of Birds"
From "Indistinguishable From The Darkness"