Nervous as a bird, I flit from seed to crumb and never get my fill. I pretend to sleep. My dreams are hasty wishes. It’s as tho I’m avoiding something. The silence is never as it should be. It’s full of the sounds of bugs and rushing leaves. And now and then a hawk casts a living shadow on the frantic field. Do I think I’ll ever be happy? My tight little gizzard grinds its gruel with pebbles I swallow. I quick my neck from this to that and with my beady eyes I blink away the peace of refrain. Do I think I’ll ever be free? This is what I ask but it’s too much to ask, because it’s too much to know. It’s too much, but it’s either this or a feathered corpse rotting in the grass.
1 May 1979