Exhausted
from the hours of flight through hot sheets
Of air –the sky itself
Reduced
to a trickle, clouds hiding under a shade of leaves,
A
handful of birds, fly right to your door, and knock
With
the curve of their beaks, paled with thirst.
You
answer right away, yourself in a hurry, and watch
Their feathers, thinned with
drought, and the Sun’s aged fury.
Come on in, Come on in,
you say. So they do, hopping in rhythm,
Falling hard for the flowers on the
rug, and onto the lap of your couch –
And
sit on the pillowcase, where they continue to be,
Giving
you company at the dead of night,
When
your mind is restless with despair, and buckling with the weight
Of
an all-consuming sense of longing.
One
in particular, his thumb-sized body,
A
smooth gradient of orange, his wings,
A
coat of forest green, looks through the lens, and into me,
Telling
me softly, that he is happy.
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