In the early mornings,
they tiptoe across bird baths
of sunlight and cement as
they wait for you to rise,
and watch as you step into
their dwellings with a palm
full of grapes and apple bits;
the sweetest slices jumping to the
ground beside your big blue
rubber boots.
They rest gently on your fingertips,
and kiss your skin with their beaks
as they nibble away at the sour
chunks in your heart.
Their feathers lay gently upon their backs;
just as the yellow plastic of your
raincoat rests on yours.
In the orange dusk of dawn,
a flock of thousands
form around you,
trapping you beneath their piercing gaze.
You can feel the water rise to your knees,
and the sun bathe your face in the miracle of warmth,
so you seat yourself upon the birdbath,
and place the sweetest bits of the apples
and grapes within your mouth,
and through the grey gusts of wind,
you plea for mercy as they
spread out your arms and open your eyes,
and begin to peck away at your soul as you cry,
metanoia,
metanoia,
metanoia,
wonderful birds.
