Birdies

The morning birds are awake.

They speak of dreams,

their dazed warbles slumping into one another

like stacks of battered bread.

Some speak of dragons’ nests;

huge mouths of hay and string which devour whole trees

and hold eggs the size of full grown men.

Others wake in a twittering panic.

Still drunk with sleep’s illusions,

they rise convinced they have flown too far,

eastward, past the sun,

cracking their porcelain beaks on rock solid horizon.

They shake themselves watchful in the periwinkle, desert dew.

The sounds waft indifferently through the valley,

the mountains blending together distinct, fantastical pitches,

unseen lands and unforgotten loves,

into one mournful thrum

that pulls the sun up.