Three fledglings in our yard
and they’re learning to fly
and they’re chirping for food.
It breaks my heart.
I’m just too sensitive.
chirp chirp
chirp
chirp chirp
It shouldn’t hurt this much.
It shouldn’t hurt at all.
They’re being fed, I presume.
Perhaps I sense
the abandoned child
in memory
in fledglings hanging on.
More likely it’s something else
—something deeper
than pop psychology.
chirp chirp
It’s something to do
with the beauty and horror
of everything,
too much for words alone
beyond
chirp chirp
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