I can imagine a tired bird

But I can’t

Imagine a bird tired of being a bird.

I think that we are the only ones

Who get tired of being ourselves.

And I can’t understand

Whether this is a fatal flow

Or a super power.

What a strange species we are.

I am writing this by a creek on a Saturday afternoon

Water running so loud it overtakes

The song of the Great Northern Flycatcher

And the chirping of the Least Flycatcher

Going about their lives up in the dense spring foliage.

Isn’t it ironic how desperate I am to catch a glimpse of them

And how indifferent they are

To whatever it is I am doing.