I am watching six black-capped chickadees,
newly-fledged. They dip and dazzle,
drunk with flight feathers.
Their nest is a hole in the wall outside my bedroom,
drilled to a perfect O by a northern flicker.

I imagine the chickadee parents, happy:
having found a place to breed when they needed it,
having lined it with moss and down, a clutch of eggs,
having fed the chicks, safe from the house cat,
having watched them fly free.

I imagine you watching after another sleepless night.
You stand on your balcony, wondering where
the poems have flown. The morning sky erupts
with violent slashes, orange and magenta.

Ranks of birds in flight shift,
writing the dawn in forbidden script.
You scan their verses before they vanish.
When the searchlight rises, clouds bleed to grey,
ceding a birdless sky, empty with sun