Through the window came the caw, caw, caw;
the voices of countless birds flying
somewhere, somewhere away from
some undesirable place.
They rode the wind. It was made for them to ride.
Such a clamor in the air, like a pick
up baseball game among feathered players.
And me, a grounded, wingless, heavy human,
heavy with his dour flesh,
on the phone in the bedroom waiting
to pay a credit card bill, while the tireless birds
play in the wind like some cowpoke on
a horse, galloping through black sky
and cloud filled prairies,
riding, riding, riding, tireless, loud, unfettered,
and me the human, thinking I am the "superior" one;
shrouded in my clayish humanity.
Who is superior? Is it me, imprisoned on the ground?