The nuthatches and chickadees
Are here, but are never there.
No twig, no arm of a lawn chair,
(Nothing their little claws seize)
Remains a perch for long
In each bird’s pursuit of song.
In movement they find flying.
They cannot be still for trying.
They pause only for sustenance —
The suspension of cadence
Taking air from the vibrating beak.
That is a bird’s life — to seek.