Small Bird

 

Do you feel it? That sadness, riding along

under the surface, as we go about our days,

smiling, chatting, straightening up things

in the yard that the wind toppled over.

How could we not be feeling it, that

sinking of the heart as we watch the news,

humans suffering the unthinkable horrors of war

- civilians, who arent even waging war, yet

suffering like soldiers.

It feels schizophrenic - two realities existing

side by side - spring coming to life outside

my window, puppies, beach walks,

sitting out front in the sun; and war,

bombing, starvation, limbs blown off,

desperate mothers trying to find food

for starving children.

This is not the best we can do.

And why are they flying to the moon

when earth is in such distress? When 

money is needed to protect the world

from fascism, to combat the climate crisis,

to house the homeless, to care for

the mentally ill.

Do you feel it? That sadness?

I envy the birds, busily making their nests,

busily hopping among the branches,

settling into their new home with satisfied chirps.

The birds, who own only feathers,

are so much happier than we are.

Small Bird, teach me your song.