A poem is not wise words.
If you want wisdom, you would not ask the birds
Who fly from tree to tree;
Neither should you expect any wisdom from me.
Nor would it be wise to write a poem to you.
Others, not meant to read it, might see it, too.
The birds have strategies.
They fly in shade to avoid death.
The males are beauties,
But brown the female in the brown nest.
The birds feed their young,
Who fly after the song is sung
And during the singing
Cheat death’s crouch and leap
With speedy winging.
No one thinks this wisdom.
It is fear, in quick bright eyes.
Yet some might call the birds wise
Who fly above us in the skies.
