the birds
are lining up in rows
outside my window,
a song interspersed
between a highway
& a radio
& I wonder why
they don't explore
further ashore;
fly to a moor where air is    
pure & wings can soar
or a mountain passé
where sun warms their soft
feathered backs,
but they choose here,      
where sky is not clear
& telephone wires hang 
where trees used to stand.
If this last trace of wild 
were to up & leave, 
I fear this city would shatter,
their melody; the glue
weaving us together.