The bird perched on a
wire is lonely.
Other wings may turn
the sky to dusk,
But the lack of
conscience on their part astounds
The bright little
bluebird.
She calls out in the
chaos
Of those feathered
structures flapping,
But her voice is
always muffled
By the constant drum
of artificial twilight.
She'll never call
out louder,
For fear of
shrieking finches
And her wings she'll
never rustle
As she might steal
someone's wind.
She sits quietly on
occasion
Except when joined
by one small sparrow
Who seems to
understand her mind.
One day though,
she'll fly away
To distant high-rise
perches
On which she'll wait
contently
For the calming of
dark wings.
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