Angela Allen

A solitary Ibis flies across a grey sky.

Such a quirky lot with their lists
and trips to the Amazon,
exotic “gotcha” finds
and chronic neck aches
from craning up into branches
with almighty binoculars,
those broad-brimmed hats.

They’re seeking
like others among us,
to understand cardinals,
and nightingales, sparrows
crows and hawks, the bluebirds,
loons and ibis, sandhill cranes,
trumpeter swans, birds that spin in
and out of poetry, pop up like signs in songs.

Why do birds suddenly appear when you walk by?

To be free and unfettered,
clean of human weight,
instead, heavenly feathers,
some short of exquisite,
just feathers,
to fly away, lightly,
and fly back.