Every bird is naturally entitled. To be our friend.
Don’t you think? Don’t you find? Don’t you sing?
As they? Gave us song? When we were still below the arabesques.
On earth. On all fours. Under the trees of them. Eating their berries.
They dropped. Metallic shine, long dangling tails. Our friends then.
Though sometimes. We ate their eggs. We did that terrible starlight thing.
Climbing into their branches. In the dark. Stealing their children.
As still we do. Now to broad daylight. So don’t you think?
They deserve it? Don’t you find? Don’t you sadly sing?
To be our poor friends? To let them die as air and light.
And not on a plate. Though they be dumb. As rocks that fly.
And scream. And die. They do die. They do.
That we name them or anything. Is a pathos.
theprosepoem 