Juveniles
At dawn, the birds storm
the back yard like a country
they are astonished to have
won without a single shot
fired. There is no end
to its richness, every seed
tasting like a year.
They have no superstitions.
They celebrate in
monosyllables.
They cannot feel the god
who lives in the wires
strung over our houses
no matter how tightly
they grasp him with their feet.
The sky is one long drink.
They will never know the quiet
hands with which we hold them
when we find them
under the hedge at dusk.
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