Winged

Up on its Window sill under the draped monotone bills freely a friend of feathers.

You surely have ignored the grey soup.

Tiny un-defended Life upon a branch: still, twitch,still.

A voice too small to hold which holds me.

Wings in a hurricane , you chirp as my heart in the suffering.

Audible cornucopia to a deaf world.

Belly to coverts are content in twigs.

Crown to tail signs aerial loops: of the lonesome heights you alone have been.

The war of words is won by the peace in your chirping: melody, silence, melody.

-M