When I’m good to myself,
I know what matters.
I know the songbird
sings as she moves,
jubilant, hallowed,
dancing over her young ones,
in, out, around their little toes
as she feeds them; I know
the hummingbird yearns
in chirps as wistful warblers
watch the woodpecker
mark the passing of the day
with its devoted wallops.
I know the owl’s pious gaze
is no glare as it pierces without motion.
All lie beneath the wide casting
call of the crow who glides over,
its eye on just one thing: dinner.
These birds, they know what matters:
daily, sacred songs, the rumble of hunger.
