I imagine that if she could,
the scissor-tailed fly-catcher would
cut, small and thin, but stinging so sharp,
so deep it would nick your soul.

I imagine that the vulture would sneer at his peers in
the throws of death as they gasp for breath,
fighting for their lives, and he would laugh.
Silly bird, he would think, you can’t
escape death.

And he would swoop down upon them so
they could see that he was coming,
the avian grim reaper watching their fear.
And after they died he would peck at their souls,
their dreams, their goals.

I imagine that the canary so small, bright, and pure flits her
way through life on the trade-wind’s whim.
She would not know of weaponized
words or the cold regard for another’s life.

And I imagine that if I were a bird, I would
be a robin, redredred with rage barley contained,
but silent still till I let it bubble and build
and I, I would know why the caged bird sings.