Thomas Green

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The Birds

My dad took me down the hall
To see the birds
To see the birds was his intent
See them, how they flit and twitter
How they dive into the long
Vessels like gourds
That are their nests
The bright red heads and yellow
Beaks chattering the unknown
Language.

Then he sat staring at me
While I, not content to see,
Began to visit with them
Forcing air around my tongue
Pursing static bursts of
Whistle and chirp
Between my lips
And he was transported
Across the divide between
Seeing and being.

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