They Ask Me

why the new
flawless birds
wired to perfection
whose beauty

song flight lift
hover settle you
cannot tell from
those not coming

back are not the
same, whose
feathertips shine
as if in the old

sunlight, whose
speckled wings
mottle further with
perfect shadow-speckle,

whose necks have
the sweet up/down
jerk of worry, whose
throat is made to

throb so slightly
as was the case
when song was
expelled why

do they not satisfy
us, why is it
only if we shut our
eyes the trills—

you can choose
the kind of bird—are
real, they come
to our sills, they leave

unexpectedly bc we
move… How they
flocked up across our
fields. How

that last morning

in that world, in rising ground-

mist, in the pull of its fast
evaporation as that strange
sun rose, arms
outstretched &

laughing, out of
breath, we ran to chase them
till they dis-
appeared.