A Meditation on Birds Hopping in the Rain

Consider the birds.


That would be nice.

But the World demands care like a tantrum-throwing toddler.

No–not that–

Like a languishing old woman buzzing the nurses station.

Would she were a child.


Born again of blood and fire.

But the World, she wants and wants, and wants more.

No–never waiting–

Always gasping and grasping like a greedy old miser.

Still the birds, they hop.


Expecting. Not doubting.