Why do I feel like I’d need to have
a scientific working knowledge of how birds fly
to write a poem about this teeny chirp that
jumps around the parking lot?

Do I have to know more than hollow bones
to envy how, as he pecks the ground,
that at the sound of anything scary,
he doesn’t flee merely along the curve of earth,
but beyond it, leaving gravity to us heavy suckers,
shooting out in a speckled, flappy flurry,
a sailor on the wind, a traveler as unfettered as sunbeams?