birdsong

foraging for field flowers in-between brick and mortar

where there’s only fingerfuls of moss nestled into cement caulking.

the birds no longer feast here.

this ground is no longer meals for the masses.

no more worms to wrap beak around.

time shows itself.

evidence,

statistics,

logistics.

it makes perfect sense if one lets it.

flowers die and birds starve and

bars are torn down and apartment buildings are built

and the birds migrate or die before they leave

or make it somewhere better and come back again.

why doesn't the dirt settle?

why doesn't the digging decelerate?

these seeds won't sprout.

there may be no seeds here ever again.

but birds, loyal to their ground keep trying

to find food where their feathers cannot reach

anything but dust and death and decay and doom.

persistence is romantic, but it cannot feed you, one-winged dove.

stop looking for love in the wrong places.

stop planting seeds where water can’t reach them.