Winged
Up on its Window sill under the draped monotone bills freely a friend of feathers.
You surely have ignored the grey soup.
Tiny un-defended Life upon a branch: still, twitch,still.
A voice too small to hold which holds me.
Wings in a hurricane , you chirp as my heart in the suffering.
Audible cornucopia to a deaf world.
Belly to coverts are content in twigs.
Crown to tail signs aerial loops: of the lonesome heights you alone have been.
The war of words is won by the peace in your chirping: melody, silence, melody.
-M
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