Poetry-Thing Thursday: How Indiscreet

Bluebirds do not sing,
but rather squawk
in early spring,
when separate from the flock.

How like them we are,
even if we don’t notice.
How high they’ve set the bar,
and how high we are above this.

To say we are not animals,
is to gravely miss the point,
for all of us become irrationals,
when we, with blood, anoint.

Whether sentient or intelligent,
we’re bound to make mistakes.
Fly from the diligent.
Fail to apply the brakes.

Still the bluebirds do not sing,
they merely squawk,
when encircled by a ring,
of steel and domed frock.

Yet we do it ourselves,
with steel and wood, concrete
leaving our hearts on shelves,
how indiscreet.

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