Self-Portrait as Birds

I’ve fluttered around the edge of cliques,pressed my beak against the bars,not in envy, but out of interest,and for the little warmglow they give off. I like a little warmth, butnot enough to open any door and go in.At the end of the day, I don’t knowhow the sky holds all this color,especially at the end of the best of daysas if to say living, any way you go about it,is a bruising business.And the darkness afterward is immensewhen it drops on all, making the gulland the crow indistinguishable.I give a little toss, and turn myhurt thoughts into birds,release them to a mindless sky,watch the dark murmurationcurve and collapse inward,upward, and disappear behindthose dark trees.