In those days we kept
a wire cage full of them
on the porch— paired,
the grey-headed and black-
collared ones; the females
mostly green, flushed beaks,
white eye-rings. Their feathers
filtered morning light a second
time that passed through leaves
of the guava tree, the redolence
of ginger flowers; at night
they made their own susurrus
behind the tarp we lowered
to shelter them from cold.
What perversity of human
nature made us want
to read in them analogy
after analogy? —The year
we fought so bitterly
over every little thing,
the year we found body
after body fallen
into viral lethargy
and stasis. Then every
last bird took its leave
and none would fledge again.
In response to Via Negativa: Blinded.
Love this one.