Still from the sill the cat peers
windowed in at the flightless
bird atop the grape pergola.
The cat flies through the night
but this bird won’t spread wings
not that we’ve ever seen.
Patient the bird still sits until
asked to fill out a form with pen
questions on feathers and hymns
and such: are you a sole
bird? how high do you fly?
are you a kind bird? what kind?
In what direction points
your beak when at odds
with others you yearn
for the sea and sing
a single note of myst
a story that obscures
your spurt in a torment
a torrent of thickel
breathfull agog gast?
The Coming of the Toads 