The Shining Bird

A bird is three things:

Feathers, flight and song,

And feathers are the least of these.

At last I hold her in my hands

The shining bird whose flight along

The perilous rim of trees

Has made my days adventurous, my spirit strong.

And now her wings

Are still — her vivid song

But ceaseless twitterings.

Her words are feathers, falling

Lightly, relentlessly, and without rest,

Revealing to my face

Her pinched and starveling breast

Like poultry, dead and unashamed

And naked in the market place.

A shattered flash of wings,

A broken song,

Echo and shine along the rim of trees.