Does the migrating duck truly know
what it is that he wants;
or is he caught up in peer pressure
when he conquers indecision,
and spreads his wings to fly
south?

Is it possible that as he soars,
like Icarus,
that he is accosted by doubt
while the late autumn sun
baptizes him?

And when he finally crashes down,
in some forgotten pond,
warmed by a tropical clime;
that he wonders what might have been,
and is overcome by regret?

She opens a window
and hopes for the sky
to fall in from outside
and it's tailwind bring

her the moon and the clouds
lined with silver, a crowd
of the finest of stars
and a spare pair of wings..

they say
if you reach too close
to the sun

you fall
to the depths
of the ocean below
​
like icarus
on his wings of melting wax.

today a dark 
sky is
   wrapping
itself around
my town,
squeezing
    all that
surrounds
in its strong
muscular
   hands, one
solitary crow
    manages
to slip free,
flies over
highways,
      streets
& trees,
I watch it
enviously as
it disappears
thinking
what I
would do
      for a pair
    of wings

The dawn has turned the dimmer up
Painting the watery sky grey
And the dew hangs everywhere
Like polished tears glinting
And an early sign of impending spring
As the birds begin their choral efforts
Later in the year they will sound like
A busy open air market
As the business of the day begins
And breakfasts are squabbled over

                                           By Phil Roberts

i wondered all by myself admiring the woods
if the Wren I heard was also thanking god
then did I hear another call a Sparrow
say something I thought might have been
Amen.

I have all these questions to ask her
but she flies away from the fence-line
and over the barns

I hear her calling in the early morning hours
but I get no answers
not to the questions my heart makes

and I feel the hot heavy breath
of the hunters
their foot treads sound ominous
on the forest floor

I have been caught too many times before
I have been folded up in heavy hands
until I couldn't even breathe
and I am reluctant to be lost again

I need that Muse-woman
to come back here
and tell me if I am really ready
to fly.

I am a plain brown bird
singing off-kilter
through the darkness.
I wonder at your tribute
as it wafts upward
on these cold nights.
Those words make me stronger
than I am.
My heart flutters
at the starshine heat.
May be
I will fly

I have died
A Phoenix burning brightly
I have burned to rise from ashes
I will be again

Still when I am reborn
It will be as something better

I called to you 
softly when I 
was young; my
voice bounced off 
the bricks of a 
suburban slum,
sauntered down 
side streets and 
stirred piles of 
leaves, then snagged 
in the branches till 
the wind tore it free 

to collapse at your 
window like a 
weary songbird
that had been 
singing for decades 
and finally, you heard.