Birds Don’t Care
Eternity is a grooved spinning record,
and we go round and round,
forever guessing if we are a song
Or the melody.
Life finds it’s tune.
Nothing is quiet.
Our sounds, we suspect, carry.
How far we can only guess,
My whistling
may reach Neptune.
I am not certain of this.
Neptune, like God, does not echo.
Birds don’t care
about their songs.
As much as we do.
They care about eggs and nests
and the size of baby wings.
Cicadas lullaby the end of summer evenings.
But night doesn’t pick up
on the chorus
and begin to dance.
Fllies whizz their little ditties
by our ears.
And we brush them away,
like bad David Bowie
covers.
The flowers
murmur their scents
into the winds,
to blind the slave bees.
We mistake them
for pleasure.
Nothing disturbs the evenhanded blizzard
that is being alive.
Nor its comedy of sudden death.
Love is the arrow that
fires straight into God’s
snowstorm
of the brief.
Patient tiny human lifetimes
hunting for first love.
Ignore the whirling and crashing
of suitors.
Who are,
All different,
all the same
all waiting.
Until she finds
the one that does not melt
away.
