I haven't seen July in years
and yesterday was no different.

The same birds
loving
and
resting before migration
violently pecked
at my skin.

The flesh never breaks,
and the engine never takes.

I never look at the sky.
I've been told there is beauty
in flight
and feathers
and people.

But I would rather stay inside.
Walls contain the chirping
from the caring
and I can sleep
forever.