No dogs and cats for me,
I wanted a bird.
And not a caged parrot or canary
but one raised on freedom,
whose wings had soared more miles
than a parakeet’s dreams.
It was the striking birds
of the fields that I longed to possess:
the male bobolink with its golden nape patch,
the flapping, gliding meadowlark,
its yellow chest, black V,
like a rugby jersey.
But I had no wish to imprison them.
More as I later found
the way a man loves a woman,
to live in concert,
not wrapped in each other’s chains.
So I ran through the meadows
on the heady trail of bob-bob-o-lincoln
or tee-you tee-yerr,
arms spread wide
as if festooned with feathers,
one eye on flashing tails,
the other seeking out the sky.
I’d reach the forest edge
panting and delirious,
ready to take my first fledgling steps
away from earth.
But I’d stumble my way
up a tree trunk to its first branch.
I’d perch there until
I was human enough to come down.
