The Bird (poem)

The bird may stop, perch upon a branch and let me take a rest.

It sits and waits and waits and waits yet it never makes a nest.

It knows that I must chase it, must keep it in it’s cage,

Yet it continues to evade me, out of spite, just to cause me rage.

It never follows one whole flock, if it does it’s not for long,

It acquaints me with the other birds, just to turn and tell me I was wrong.

It tries to confuse and delude with its ever-changing song,

It deliberately flies over the most perilous path, just to string me along.

Surely it must be my fault, for following it all day and all night

Thinking maybe, maybe, just maybe, I'll finally get its path right.

Surely I must be a fool, for when it makes a stop, or sings a different rhyme,

I begin to believe it will remain that way, for the rest of time.

As soon as it began to chirp a different melody, it’s back to changing tempo

For no real reason other than distressing me.

It traces paths others have flown, in an apparent mockery,

Then it slows, stops, and for a few moments, perches upon a tree.